THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


&. 


AVAKERS  Sr 
LITERATURE 

EDITED    BY 

JOHN  MORLEY 


/         X 


ROBERT   SOUTHEY 


^^^^=^ 


ynAKBRS  S' 
LITBRATURE 

EDITED   BY 

JOHN   yvvORLBY 


J 


SOUTHEY 


Edward  Dowden,  M.  A.,  Litt.  D. 

AUTHOR    OF 

"SHAKSPERE:  A  STUDY  OF  HIS  MIND  AND 

ART"  "SHAKSPERE  PRIMER" 

ETC 


Lr"-x\     y^ 


X /T-^ 


A  .    l^  .    F    O    W   1^   E. 

PUB  LIS  HE,R 

N  E.W     YOR  K 


NOTE. 

I  AM  indebted  throughout  to  The  Life  and  Correspond- 
ence of  Robert  Southey,  edited  by  the  Rev.  C  C.  Southey, 
six  volumes,  1850,  and  to  Selections  from  the  Letters  of 
Robert  Southey,  edited  by  J.  W.  Warter,  B.D.,  four  vol- 
iimes,  1856.  Many  other  sources  have  been  consulted. 
I  thank  Mr.  W.  J.  Craig  for  help  given  in  examining 
Southey  manuscripts,  and  Mr.  T.  W.  Lyster  for  many  valu- 
able suggestions. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTEE  I. 

PAaE 
Childhood 1 

CHAPTEE  II. 
Westminster,  Oxford,  Pantisocracy,  and  Marriage  .     19 

CHAPTEE  III. 
Wanderings,  1795—1803 44 

CHAPTEE  IV. 
Ways  of  Life  at  Keswick,  1803—1839 80 

CHAPTEE  V. 
Ways  of  Life  at  Keswick,  1803 — 1839  (continued)    .     .  112 

CHAPTEE  VI. 
Changes  and  Events,  1803—1843 142 

CHAPTEE  VIL 
Southey's  Work  in  Literature 187 


SOUTHEY. 

CHAPTER  L 

CHILDHOOD. 

No  one  of  his  generation  lived  so  completely  in  and  for 
literature  as  did  Southey.  "  He  is,"  said  Byron,  "  the 
only  existing  entire  man  of  letters."  With  him  literature 
served  the  needs  both  of  the  material  life  and  of  the  life 
of  the  intellect  and  imagination  ;  it  was  his  means  of  earn- 
ing daily  bread,  and  also  the  means  of  satisfying  his  high- 
est ambitions  and  desires.  This,  which  was  true  of  Southey 
at  five-and-twenty  years  of  age,  was  equally  true  at  forty, 
fifty,  sixty.  During  all  that  time  he  was  actively  at  work 
accumulating,  arranging,  and  distributing  knowledge ;  no 
one  among  his  contemporaries  gathered  so  large  a  store 
from  the  records  of  the  past;  no  one  toiled  with  such 
steadfast  devotion  to  enrich  his  age ;  no  one  occupied  so 
honourable  a  place  in  so  many  provinces  of  literature. 
There  is  not,  perhaps,  any  single  work  of  Southey's  the 
loss  of  which  would  be  felt  by  us  as  a  capital  misfortune. 
But  the  more  we  consider  his  total  work,  its  mass,  its  va- 
riety, its  high  excellence,  the  more  we  come  to  regard  it  as 
a  memorable,  an  extraordinary  achievement. 
1* 


2  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

Southey  himself,  however,  stands  above  his  works.  In 
subject  they  are  disconnected,  and  some  of  them  appear 
like  huge  fragments.  It  is  the  presence  of  one  mind,  one 
character  in  all,  easily  recognizable  by  him  who  knows 
Southey,  which  gives  them  a  vital  unity.  We  could  lose 
the  History  of  Brazil,  or  th*^  Peninsular  War,  or  the  Life 
of  Wesley,  and  feel  that  if  our  possessions  were  diminish- 
ed, we  ourselves  in  our  inmost  being  had  undergone  no 
loss  which  might  not  easily  be  endured.  But  he  who 
has  once  come  to  know  Southey's  voice  as  the  voice  of  a 
friend,  so  clear,  so  brave,  so  honest,  so  full  of  boyish  glee, 
so  full  of  manly  tenderness,  feels  that  if  he  heard  that 
voice  no  more  a  portion  of  his  life  were  gone.  To  make 
acquaintance  with  the  man  is  better  than  to  study  the 
subjects  of  his  books.  In  such  a  memoir  as  the  present, 
to  glance  over  the  contents  of  a  hundred  volumes,  dealing 
with  matters  widely  remote,  would  be  to  wander  upon  a 
vast  circumference  when  we  ought  to  strike  for  the  centre. 
If  the  reader  come  to  know  Southey  as  he  read  and  wrote 
in  his  library,  as  he  rejoiced  and  sorrowed  among  his  chil- 
dren, as  he  held  hands  with  good  old  friends,  as  he  walked 
by  the  lake-side,  or  lingered  to  muse  near  some  mountain 
stream,  as  he  hoped  and  feared  for  England,  as  he  thought 
of  life  and  death  and  a  future  beyond  the  grave,  the  end 
of  this  small  book  will  have  been  attained. 

At  the  age  of  forty-six  Robert  Southey  wrote  the  first 
of  a  series  of  autobiographic  sketches ;  his  spirit  was  cou- 
rageous, and  life  had  been  good  to  him ;  but  it  needed 
more  than  his  courage  to  live  again  in  remembrance  with 
so  many  of  the  dead;  having  told  the  story  of  his  boy- 
hood, he  had  not  the  heart  to  go  farther.  The  autobiog^ 
raphy  rambles  pleasantly  into  by-ways  of  old  Bath  and 
Bristol  life ;  at  Westminster  School  it  leaves  him.     So  far 


1.]  CHILDHOOD.  8 

we  shall  go  along  with  it ;  for  what  lies  beyond,  a  record 
of  Southey's  career  must  be  brought  together  from  a  mul- 
titude of  letters,  published  or  still  remaining  in  manuscript, 
and  from  many  and  massy  volumes  in  prose  and  verse, 
which  show  how  the  industrious  hours  sped  by. 

Southey's  father  was  a  linen-draper  of  Bristol.  He  had 
left  his  native  fields  under  the  Quantock  hills  to  take  ser- 
vice in  a  London  shop,  but  his  heart  suffered  in  its  exile. 
The  tears  were  in  his  eyes  one  day  when  a  porter  went  by 
carrying  a  hare,  and  the  remembrance  suddenly  came  to 
him  of  his  rural  sports.  On  his  master's  death  he  took  a 
place  behind  the  counter  of  Britton's  shop  in  Wine  Street, 
Bristol ;  and  when,  twelve  years  later,  he  opened  a  shop  for 
himself  in  the  same  business,  he  had,  with  tender  reminis- 
cence, a  hare  painted  for  a  device  upon  his  windows.  He 
kept  his  grandfather's  sword  which  had  been  borne  in 
Monmouth's  rebellion ;  he  loved  the  chimes  and  quarter- 
boys  of  Christ  Church,  Bristol,  and  tried,  as  church-warden, 
to  preserve  them.  What  else  of  poetry  there  may  have 
been  in  the  life  of  Robert  Southey  the  elder  is  lost  among 
the  buried  epics  of  prosaic  lives.  We  cannot  suppose  that 
as  a  man  of  business  he  was  sharp  and  shrewd;  he  cer- 
tainly was  not  successful.  When  the  draper's  work  was 
done,  he  whiled  away  the  hours  over  Felix  Farley's  Bristol 
Journal,  his  only  reading.  For  library  some  score  of  books 
shared  with  his  wine-glasses  the  small  cupboard  in  the 
back  parlour ;  its  chief  treasures  were  the  Spectator,  the 
Guardian^  some  eighteenth-century  poems,  dead  even  then, 
and  one  or  two  immortal  plays. 

On  Sundays  Mr.  Southey,  then  a  bachelor,  would  stroll 
to  Bedminster  to  dine  at  the  pleasant  house  of  Mrs.  Hill 
— a  substantial  house  to  which  Edward  Hill,  gentleman, 
brought  his  second  wife,  herself  a  widow ;  a  house  rich  in 


4  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

old  English  comfort,  with  its  diamond -tiled  garden -way 
and  jessamine-covered  porch,  its  wainscoted  "  best  kitchen," 
its  blue  room  and  green  room  and  yellow  room,  its  grapes 
and  greengages  and  nectarines,  its  sweet-williams  and 
stocks  and  syringas.  Among  these  pleasant  surroundings 
the  young  draper  found  it  natural,  on  Sabbath  afternoons, 
to  make  love  to  pleasant  Margaret  Hill.  "  Never,"  writes 
her  son  Robert  Southey — "  never  was  any  human  being 
blessed  with  a  sweeter  temper  or  a  happier  disposition." 
Her  face  had  been  marred  by  the  seams  of  small-pox,  but 
its  brightness  and  kindness  remained ;  there  was  a  charm 
in  her  clear  hazel  eyes,  so  good  a  temper  and  so  alert  an 
understanding  were  to  be  read  in  them.  She  had  not 
gone  to  any  school  except  one  for  dancing,  and  "her  state," 
declares  Southey,  "  was  the  more  gracious ;"  her  father 
had,  however,  given  her  lessons  in  the  art  of  whistling ; 
she  could  turn  a  tune  like  a  blackbird.  From  a  mother, 
able  to  see  a  fact  swiftly  and  surely,  and  who  knew  both 
to  whistle  and  to  dance,  Southey  inherited  that  alertness 
of  intellect  and  that  joyous  temper,  without  which  he  could 
not  have  accomplished  his  huge  task-work,  never  yielding 
to  a  mood  of  rebellion  or  ennui. 

After  the  courtship  on  Sunday  afternoons  came  the 
wedding,  and  before  long  a  beautiful  boy  was  born,  who 
died  in  infancy.  On  the  12th  of  August,  1774,  Mrs. 
Southey  was  again  in  the  pain  of  childbirth.  "  Is  it  a 
boy  ?"  she  asked  the  nurse.  "  Ay,  a  great  ugly  boy !" 
With  such  salutation  from  his  earliest  critic  the  future 
poet-laureate  entered  this  world.  "God  forgive  me,"  his 
mother  exclaimed  afterwards,  in  relating  the  event,  "  when 
I  saw  what  a  great  red  creature  it  was,  covered  with  rolls 
of  fat,  I  thought  I  should  never  be  able  to  love  him." 
In  due  time  the  red  creature  proved  to  be  a  distinctively 


I.]  CHILDHOOD.  5 

human  ctild,  whose  curly  hair  and  sensitive  feelings  made 
him  a  mother's  darling.  He  had  not  yet  heard  of  senti- 
ment or  of  Rousseau,  but  he  wept  at  the  pathos  of  roman- 
tic literature,  at  the  tragic  fate  of  the  "  Children  sliding  on 
the  ice  all  on  a  summer's  day,"  or  the  too  early  death  of 
"Billy  Pringle's  pig,"  and  he  would  beg  the  reciters  not 
to  proceed.  His  mother's  household  cares  multiplied,  and 
Southey,  an  unbreeched  boy  of  three  years,  was  borne 
away  one  morning  by  his  faithful  foster-mother  Patty  to 
be  handed  over  to  the  tender  mercies  of  a  schoolmistress. 
Ma'am  Powell  was  old  and  grim,  and  with  her  lashless 
eyes  gorgonized  the  new  pupil ;  on  the  seizure  of  her  hand 
he  woke  to  rebellion,  kicking  lustily,  and  crying,  "  Take 
me  to  Pat !  I  don't  like  ye !  you've  got  ugly  eyes !  take 
me  to  Pat,  I  say  !"  But  soft-hearted  Pat  had  gone  home, 
sobbing. 

Mrs.  Southey's  one  weakness  was  that  of  submitting  too 
meekly  to  the  tyranny  of  an  imperious  half-sister.  Miss 
Tyler,  the  daughter  of  Grandmother  Hill  by  her  first  mar- 
riage. For  this  weakness  there  were  excuses ;  Miss  Tyler 
was  an  elder  sister  by  many  years;  she  had  property  of 
her  own ;  she  passed  for  a  person  of  fashion,  and  was  still 
held  to  be  a  beauty ;  above  all,  she  had  the  advantage  of  a 
temper  so  capricious  and  violent  that  to  quarrel  with  her 
at  all  might  be  to  lose  her  sisterly  regard  for  ever.  Her 
struggling  sister's  eldest  son  took  Aunt  Tyler's  fancy;  it 
was  a  part  of  her  imperious  kindness  to  adopt  or  half- 
adopt  the  boy.  Aunt  Tyler  lived  in  Bath ;  in  no  other 
city  could  a  gentlewoman  better  preserve  health  and  good 
looks,  or  enjoy  so  much  society  of  distinction  on  easy  but 
not  too  ample  means ;  it  possessed  a  charming  theatre,  and 
Miss  Tyler  was  a  patron  of  the  drama.  To  Bath,  then,  she 
had  brought  her  portrait  by  Gainsborough,  her  inlaid  cabi- 


6  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

net  of  ebony,  her  cherry-wood  arm-chair,  her  mezzotints 
after  Angelica  Kaufmann,  her  old-maid  hoards  of  this  and 
of  that,  the  woman  servant  she  had  saved  from  the  toils  of 
matrimony,  and  the  old  man,  harmless  as  one  of  the  crick- 
ets which  he  nightly  fed  until  he  died.  To  Bath  Miss  Ty- 
ler also  brought  her  nephew ;  and  she  purchased  a  copy  of 
the  new  gospel  of  education,  Rousseau's  Emilius,  in  order 
to  ascertain  how  Nature  should  have  her  perfect  work  with 
a  boy  in  petticoats.  Here  the  little  victim,  without  com- 
panions, without  play,  without  the  child's  beatitudes  of 
dirt  and  din,  was  carefully  swathed  in  the  odds  and  ends 
of  habits  and  humours  which  belonged  to  a  maiden  lady 
of  a  whimsical,  irrational,  and  self-indulgent  temper.  Miss 
Tyler,  when  not  prepared  for  company,  wandered  about  the 
house — a  faded  beauty — in  the  most  faded  and  fluttering 
of  costumes ;  but  in  her  rags  she  was  spotless.  To  pre- 
serve herself  and  her  worldly  gear  from  the  dust,  for  ever 
floating  and  gathering  in  this  our  sordid  atmosphere,  was 
the  business  of  her  life.  Her  acquaintances  she  divided 
into  the  clean  and  the  unclean — the  latter  class  being  much 
the  more  numerous.  Did  one  of  the  unclean  take  a  seat 
in  her  best  room,  the  infected  chair  must  be  removed  to 
the  garden  to  be  aired.  But  did  he  seat  himself  in  Miss 
Tyler's  own  arm-chair,  pressing  his  abominable  person  into 
Miss  Tyler's  own  cushion,  then  passionate  were  her  dismay 
and  despair.  To  her  favourites  she  was  gracious  and  high- 
bred, regaling  them  with  reminiscences  of  Lady  Bateman, 
and  with  her  views  on  taste,  Shakspeare,  and  the  musical 
glasses.  For  her  little  nephew  she  invented  the  pretty  rec- 
reation of  pricking  playbills ;  all  capital  letters  were  to  be 
illuminated  with  pin-holes ;  it  was  not  a  boisterous  nor  an 
ungenteel  sport.  At  other  times  the  boy  wOuld  beguile 
the  hours  in  the  garden,  making  friends  with  flowers  and 


I.]  CHILDHOOD.  7 

insects,  or  looking  wistfully  towards  that  sham  castle  on 
ClavertoD  Hill,  seat  of  romantic  mystery,  but,  alas !  two 
miles  away,  and  therefore  beyond  the  climbing  powers  of 
a  refined  gentlewoman.  Southey's  hardest  daily  trial  was 
the  luxurious  morning  captivity  of  his  aunt's  bed ;  still  at 
nine,  at  ten  that  lady  lay  in  slumber;  the  small  urchin, 
long  perked  up  and  broad  awake,  feared  by  sound  or  stir 
to  rouse  her,  and  would  nearly  wear  his  little  wits  away  in 
plotting  re-arrangements  of  the  curtain-pattern,  or  studying 
the  motes  at  mazy  play  in  the  slant  sunbeam.  His  happi- 
est season  was  when  all  other  little  boys  were  fast  asleep ; 
then,  splendid  in  his  gayest  "  jam,"  he  sat  beside  Miss  Ty- 
ler in  a  front  row  of  the  best  part  of  the  theatre ;  when  the 
yawning  fits  had  passed,  he  was  as  open-eyed  as  the  oldest, 
and  stared  on,  filling  his  soul  with  the  spectacle,  till  the 
curtain  fell. 

The  "great  red  creature,"  Robert  Southey,  had  now 
grown  into  the  lean  greyhound  of  his  after-life ;  his  long 
legs  wanted  to  be  stirring,  and  there  were  childish  ambi- 
tions already  at  work  in  his  head.  Freedom  became  dear- 
er to  him  than  the  daintiest  cage,  and  when  at  six  he  re- 
turned to  his  father's  house  in  Wine  Street,  it  was  with 
rejoicing.  Now,  too,  his  aunt  issued  an  edict  that  the 
long-legged  lad  should  be  breeched ;  an  epoch  of  life  was 
complete.  Wine  Street,  with  its  freedom,  seemed  good ; 
but  best  of  all  was  a  visit  to  Grandmother  Hill's  pleasant 
house  at  Bedminster.  "  Here  I  had  all  wholesome  liberty, 
all  wholesome  indulgence,  all  wholesome  enjoyments ;  and 
the  delight  which  I  there  learnt  to  take  in  rural  sights  and 
sounds  has  grown  up  with  me,  and  continues  unabated  to 
this  day."  And  now  that  scrambling  process  called  edu- 
cation was  to  begin,  A  year  was  spent  by  Southey  as  a 
day-scholar  with  old  Mr.  Foot,  a  dissenting  minister,  whose 


8  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

unorthodoxy  as  to  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity  was  in  some 
measure  compensated  by  sound  traditional  views  as  to  the 
uses  of  the  cane.  Mr.  Foot,  having  given  proof  on  the 
back  of  his  last  and  his  least  pupil  of  steadfastness  in  the 
faith  according  to  Busby,  died ;  and  it  was  decided  that 
the  boy  should  be  placed  under  Thomas  Flower,  who  kept 
school  at  Corston,  nine  miles  from  Bristol.  To  a  tender 
mother's  heart  nine  miles  seemed  a  breadth  of  severance 
cruel  as  an  Atlantic.  Mrs.  Southey,  born  to  be  happy  her- 
self, and  to  make  others  happy,  had  always  heretofore  met 
her  son  with  a  smile;  now  he  found  her  weeping  in  her 
chamber  ;  with  an  effort,  such  as  Southey,  man  and  boy,  al- 
ways knew  how  to  make  on  like  occasions,  he  gulped  down 
his  own  rising  sob,  and  tried  to  brighten  her  sorrow  with 
a  smUe. 

A  boy's  first  night  at  school  is  usually  not  a  time  of 
mirth.  The  heart  of  the  solitary  little  lad  at  Corston 
sank  within  him.  A  melancholy  hung  about  the  decayed 
mansion  which  had  once  known  better  days;  the  broken 
gateways,  the  summer-houses  falling  in  ruins,  the  grass- 
grown  court,  the  bleakness  of  the  schoolroom,  ill-disguised 
by  its  faded  tapestry,  depressed  the  spirits.  Southey's  pil- 
low was  wet  with  tears  before  he  fell  asleep.  The  master 
was  at  one  with  his  surroundings ;  he,  too,  was  a  piece  of 
worthy  old  humanity  now  decayed ;  he,  too,  was  falling  in 
untimely  ruins.  From  the  memory  of  happier  days,  from 
the  troubles  of  his  broken  fortune,  from  the  vexations  of 
the  drunken  maid-servant  who  was  now  his  wife,  he  took 
refuge  in  contemplating  the  order  and  motions  of  the 
stars.  "  When  he  came  into  his  desk,  even  there  he  was 
thinking  of  the  stars,  and  looked  as  if  he  were  out  of  hu- 
mour, not  from  ill-nature,  but  because  his  calculations  were 
interrupted."     Naturally  the  work  of  the  school,  such  as 


I.]  CHILDHOOD.  9 

it  was,  fell,  for  the  most  part,  into  the  hands  of  Charley, 
Thomas  Flower's  son.  Both  father  and  son  knew  the 
mystery  of  that  flamboyant  penmanship  admired  by  our 
ancestors,  but  Southey's  handwriting  had  not  yet  advanced 
from  the  early  rounded  to  the  decorated  style.  His  spell- 
ing he  could  look  back  upon  with  pride :  on  one  occasion 
a  grand  spelling  tournament  between  the  boys  took  place ; 
and  little  Southey  can  hardly  have  failed  to  overthrow  his 
taller  adversaries  with  the  posers,  "crystallization"  and 
"  coterie."  The  household  arrangements  at  Corston,  as 
may  be  supposed,  were  not  of  the  most  perfect  kind ;  Mrs. 
Flower  had  so  deep  an  interest  in  her  bottle,  and  poor 
Thomas  Flower  in  his  planets.  The  boys  each  morning 
washed  themselves,  or  did  not,  in  the  brook  ankle -deep 
which  ran  through  the  yard.  In  autumn  the  brook  grew 
deeper  and  more  swift,  and  after  a  gale  it  would  bring 
within  bounds  a  tribute  of  floating  apples  from  the  neigh- 
bouring orchard.  That  was  a  merry  day,  also  in  autumn, 
when  the  boys  were  employed  to  pelt  the  master's  walnut- 
trees  ;  Southey,  too  small  to  bear  his  part  in  the  battery, 
would  glean  among  the  fallen  leaves  and  twigs,  inhaling 
the  penetrating  fragrance  which  ever  after  called  up  a  vi- 
sion of  the  brook,  the  hillside,  and  its  trees.  One  school- 
boy sport — that  of  "  conquering  "  with  snail-shells — seems 
to  have  been  the  special  invention  of  Corston.  The  snail- 
shells,  not  tenantless,  were  pressed  point  against  point  un- 
til one  was  broken  in.  A  great  conqueror  was  prodigious- 
ly prized,  was  treated  with  honourable  distinction,  and  was 
not  exposed  to  danger  save  in  great  emergencies.  One 
who  had  slain  his  hundreds  might  rank  with  Rodney,  to 
see  whom  the  boys  had  marched  down  to  the  Globe  inn, 
and  for  whom  they  had  cheered  and  waved  their  Sunday 

cocked  hats  as  he  passed  by.     So,  on  the  whole,  life  at 
S 


10  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

Corston  had  its  pleasures.  Chief  among  its  pains  was  the 
misery  of  Sunday  evenings  in  winter;  then  the  pupils 
were  assembled  in  the  hall  to  hear  the  master  read  a  ser- 
mon, or  a  portion  of  Stackhouse's  History  of  the  Bible. 
"  Here,"  writes  Southey,  "  I  sat  at  the  end  of  a  long  form, 
in  sight  but  not  within  feel'ng  of  the  fire,  my  feet  cold, 
my  eyelids  heavy  as  lead,  and  yet  not  daring  to  close 
them — kept  awake  by  fear  alone,  in  total  inaction,  and 
under  the  operation  of  a  lecture  more  soporific  than  the 
strongest  sleeping  dose."  While  the  boys'  souls  were 
thus  provided  for,  there  was  a  certain  negligence  in  mat- 
ters un  spiritual ;  an  alarm  got  abroad  that  infection  was 
among  them.  This  hastened  the  downfall  of  the  school. 
One  night  disputing  was  heard  between  Charley  and  his 
father;  in  the  morning  poor  Flower  was  not  to  be  seen, 
and  Charley  appeared  with  a  black  eye.  So  came  to  an 
end  the  year  at  Corston.  Southey,  aged  eight,  was  brought 
home,  and  underwent  "  a  three  days'  purgatory  in  brim- 
stone.'" 

What  Southey  had  gained  of  book-lore  by  his  two  years' 
schooling  was  as  little  as  could  be ;  but  he  was  already  a 
lover  of  literature  after  a  fashion  of  his  own.  A  friend  of 
Miss  Tyler  had  presented  him,  as  soon  as  he  could  read, 
with  a  series  of  Newbery's  sixpenny  books  for  children — 
Goody  Twoshoes,  Giles  Gingerbread,  and  the  rest — delect- 
able histories,  resplendent  in  Dutch-gilt  paper.  The  true 
masters  of  his  imagination,  however,  were  the  players  and 
playwrights  who  provided  amusement  for  the  pleasure-lov- 
ing people  of  Bath.  Miss  Tyler  was  acquainted  with  Col- 
man,  and  Sheridan,  and  Cumberland,  and  Holcroft ;  her  talk 

'  Recollections  of  Corston,  somewhat  in  the  manner  of  Gold- 
smith's Deserted  Village,  will  be  found  in  Southey's  early  poem,  Tlu 
Retrospect. 


I.]  CHILDHOOD.  11 

was  of  actors  and  authors,  and  her  nephew  soon  perceived 
that,  honoured  as  were  both  classes,  the  authors  were 
awarded  the  higher  place.  His  first  dreams  of  literary 
fame,  accordingly,  were  connected  with  the  drama.  "  '  It 
is  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  write  a  play,'  said  I  to 
Miss  Palmer  (a  friend  of  Aunt  Tyler's),  as  we  were  in  a 
carriage  on  Redcliffe  Hill  one  day,  returning  from  Bristol 
to  Bedminster.  '  Is  it,  my  dear  V  was  her  reply.  '  Yes,' 
I  continued,  '  for  you  know  you  have  only  to  think  what 
you  would  say  if  you  were  in  the  place  of  the  characters, 
and  to  make  them  say  it.' "  With  such  a  canon  of  dra- 
matic authorship  Southey  began  a  play  on  the  continence 
of  Scipio,  and  actually  completed  an  act  and  a  half.  Shak- 
speare  he  read  and  read  again  ;  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  he 
had  gone  through  before  he  was  eight  years  old.  Were 
they  not  great  theatrical  names.  Miss  Tyler  reasoned,  and 
therefore  improving  writers  for  her  nephew  ?  and  Southey 
had  read  them  unharmed.  When  he  visited  his  aunt  from 
Corston,  she  was  a  guest  with  Miss  Palmer  at  Bath ;  a 
covered  passage  led  to  the  playhouse,  and  every  evening 
the  delighted  child,  seated  between  the  two  lady-patron- 
esses of  the  stage,  saw  the  pageantry  and  heard  the  poetry. 
A  little  later  he  persuaded  a  schoolfellow  to  write  a  trage- 
dy ;  Ballard  liked  the  suggestion,  but  could  not  invent  a 
plot.  Southey  gave  him  a  story ;  Ballard  approved,  but 
found  a  difficulty  in  devising  names  for  the  dramatis  per- 
sonoB.  Southey  supplied  a  list  of  heroic  names :  they  were 
just  what  Ballard  wanted — but  he  was  at  a  loss  to  know 
what  the  characters  should  say.  "I  made  the  same  at- 
tempt," continued  Southey,  "with  another  schoolfellow, 
and  with  no  better  success.  It  seemed  to  me  very  odd 
that  they  should  not  be  able  to  write  plays  as  well  as  to 
do  their  lessons." 


12  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

The  ingenious  Ballard  was  an  ornament  of  the  school 
of  William  Williams,  whither  Southey  was  sent  as  a  day- 
boarder  after  the  catastrophe  of  Corston.  Under  the  care 
of  this  kindly,  irascible,  little,  bewigged  old  Welshman, 
Southey  remained  during  four  years.  Williams  was  not 
a  model  schoolmaster,  but  he  was  a  man  of  character  and 
of  a  certain  humorous  originality.  In  two  things  he  be- 
lieved with  all  the  energy  of  his  nature — in  his  own  spell- 
ing-book printed  for  his  own  school,  and  in  the  Church 
Catechism.  Latin  was  left  to  the  curate ;  when  Southey 
reached  Virgil,  old  Williams,  delighted  with  classical  at- 
tainments rare  among  his  pupils,  thought  of  taking  the 
boy  into  his  own  hands,  but  his  little  Latin  had  faded 
from  his  brain;  and  the  curate  himself  seemed  to  have 
reached  his  term  in  the  Tityre  tu  patulce  recubans  sub  teg- 
mine  fagi,  so  that  to  Southey,  driven  round  and  round  the 
pastoral  paddock,  the  names  of  Tityrus  and  Meliboeus  be- 
came for  ever  after  symbols  of  ennui.  No  prosody  was 
taught :  "  I  am,"  said  Southey,  "  at  this  day  as  liable  to 
make  a  false  quantity  as  any  Scotchman."  The  credit, 
however,  is  due  to  Williams  of  having  discovered  in  his 
favourite  pupil  a  writer  of  English  prose.  One  day  each 
boy  of  a  certain  standing  was  called  upon  to  write  a  letter 
on  any  subject  he  pleased :  never  had  Southey  written  a 
letter  except  the  formal  one  dictated  at  Corston  which  be- 
gan with  "  Honoured  Parents."  He  cried  for  perplexity 
and  vexation ;  but  Williams  encouraged  him,  and  present- 
ly a  description  of  Stonehenge  filled  his  slate.  The  old 
man  was  surprised  and  delighted.  A  less  amiable  feeling 
possessed  Southey's  schoolfellows :  a  plan  was  forthwith 
laid  for  his  humiliation — could  he  tell  them,  fine  scholar 
that  he  was,  what  the  letters  i.  e.  stand   for?     Southey, 


I.]  CHILDHOOD.  13 

never  lacking  in  courage,  drew  a  bow  at  a  venture :  for 
John  the  Evangelist. 

The  old  Welshman,  an  original  himself,  had  an  odd  fol- 
lowing of  friends  and  poor  retainers.  There  was  the  crazy 
rhymester  known  as  "  Dr.  Jones ;"  tradition  darkly  related 
that  a  dose  of  cantharides  administered  by  waggish  boys 
of  a  former  generation  had  robbed  him  of  his  wits.  "The 
most  celebrated  improvisatore  was  never  half  so  vain  of  his 
talent  as  this  queer  creature,  whose  little  figure  of  some 
five-feet-two  I  can  perfectly  call  to  mind,  with  his  suit  of 
rusty  black,  his  more  rusty  wig,  and  his  old  cocked  hat. 
Whenever  he  entered  the  schoolroom  he  was  greeted  with 
a  shout  of  welcome."  There  was  also  Pullen,  the  breeches- 
maker — a  glorious  fellow,  brimful  of  vulgarity,  prosperity, 
and  boisterous  good-nature ;  above  all,  an  excellent  hand 
at  demanding  a  half-holiday.  A  more  graceful  presence, 
but  a  more  fleeting,  was  that  of  Mrs.  Estan,  the  actress, 
who  came  to  learn  from  the  dancing-master  her  minuet  de 
la  cour  in  The  Belle's  Stratagem.  Southey  himself  had 
to  submit  to  lessons  in  dancing.  Tom  Madge,  his  constant 
partner,  had  limbs  that  went  every  way ;  Southey's  limbs 
would  go  no  way :  the  spectacle  presented  by  their  joint 
endeavours  was  one  designed  for  the  pencil  of  Cruikshank. 
In  the  art  of  reading  aloud  Miss  Tyler  had  herself  instruct- 
ed her  nephew,  probably  after  the  manner  of  the  most  ap- 
proved tragedy  queens.  The  grand  style  did  not  please 
honest  Williams.  "  Who  taught  you  to  read  ?"  he  asked, 
scornfully.  " My  aunt,"  answered  Southey.  "Then  give 
my  compliments  to  your  aunt,  and  tell  her  that  my  old 
horse,  that  has  been  dead  these  twenty  years,  could  have 
taught  you  as  well " — a  message  which  her  nephew,  with 
the  appalling  frankness  of  youth,  delivered,  and  which  was 
never  forgotten. 


14  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

While  Southey  was  at  Corston,  his  grandmother  died ; 
the  old  lady  with  the  large,  clear,  brown,  bright  eyes,  seat- 
ed in  her  garden,  Avas  no  more  to  be  seen,  and  the  Bed- 
minster  house,  after  a  brief  occupation  by  Miss  Tyler,  was 
sold.  Miss  Tyler  spoke  of  Bristol  society  with  a  disdain- 
ful sniff ;  it  was  her  choice  to  wander  for  a  while  from  one 
genteel  watering-place  to  another.  When  Williams  gave 
Southey  his  first  summer  holidays,  he  visited  his  aunt  at 
Weymouth.  The  hours  spent  there  upon  the  beach  were 
the  most  spiritual  hours  of  Southey's  boyhood ;  he  was 
for  the  first  time  in  face  of  the  sea — the  sea  vast,  voice- 
ful,  and  mysterious.  Another  epoch-making  event  occur- 
red about  the  same  time ;  good  Mrs.  Dolignon,  his  aunt's 
friend,  gave  him  a  book — the  first  which  became  his  very 
own  since  that  present  of  the  toy-books  of  Newbery.  It 
was  Hoole's  translation  of  Tasso's  Gerusalemme  Liberata; 
in  it  a  world  of  poetical  adventure  was  opened  to  the  boy. 
The  notes  to  Tasso  made  frequent  reference  to  Ariosto ; 
Bull's  Circulating  Library  at  Bath — a  Bodleian  to  Southey 
— supplied  him  with  the  version,  also  by  Hoole,  of  the  Or- 
lando Furioso  ;  here  was  a  forest  of  old  romance  in  which 
to  lose  himself.  But  a  greater  discovery  was  to  come ; 
searching  the  notes  again,  Southey  found  mention  made  of 
Spenser,  and  certain  stanzas  of  Spenser's  chief  poem  were 
quoted.  "Was  the  Faerie  Queene  on  Bull's  shelves?" 
"Yes,"  was  the  answer;  "they  had  it,  but  it  was  in  obsolete 
language,  and  the  young  gentleman  would  not  understand 
it."  The  young  gentleman,  who  had  already  gone  through 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  was  not  daunted ;  he  fell  to  with 
the  keenest  relish,  feeling  in  Spenser  the  presence  of  some- 
thing which  was  lacking  in  the  monotonous  couplets  of 
Hoole,  and  charming  himself  unaware  with  the  music  of 


J.]  CHILDHOOD.  15 

the  stanza.     Spenser,  "  not  more  sweet  than  pure,  and  not 
more  pure  than  wise," 

"High-priest  of  all  the  Muses'  mysteries,"* 

was  henceforth  accepted  by  Southey  as  his  master. 

When  Miss  Tyler  had  exhausted  her  friends'  hospitality, 
and  had  grown  tired  of  lodgings,  she  settled  in  a  pleasant 
suburban  nook  at  Bristol ;  but  having  a  standing  quarrel 
with  Thomas  Southey,  her  sister's  brother-in-law,  she  would 
never  set  foot  in  the  house  in  Wine  Street,  and  she  tried 
to  estrange  her  nephew,  as  far  as  possible,  from  his  natural 
home.  Her  own  brother  William,  a  half-witted  creature, 
she  brought  to  live  with  her.  "  The  Squire,"  as  he  was 
called,  was  hardly  a  responsible  being,  yet  he  had  a  sort  of 
half-saved  shrewdness,  and  a  memory  stored  with  old  saws, 
which,  says  Southey,  "  would  have  qualified  him,  had  he 
been  born  two  centuries  earlier,  to  have  worn  motley,  and 
figured  with  a  cap  and  bells  and  a  bauble  in  some  baron's 
hall."  A  saying  of  his,  "  Curses  are  like  young  chickens, 
they  always  come  home  to  roost,"  was  remembered  by 
Southey  in  after-years ;  and  when  it  was  turned  into  Greek 
by  Coleridge,  to  serve  as  motto  to  The  Curse  of  Kehama, 
a  mysterious  reference  was  given — Atrofd.  Avejc.  rov  rvXleX. 
Tov  Mr]r.  With  much  beer-swilling  and  tobacco-chewing, 
premature  old  age  came  upon  him.  He  would  sit  for 
hours  by  the  kitchen  fire,  or,  on  warm  days,  in  the  summer- 
house,  his  eyes  intently  following  the  movements  of  the 
neighbours.  He  loved  to  play  at  marbles  with  his  nephew, 
and  at  loo  with  Miss  Tyler;  most  of  all,  he  loved  to  be 
taken  to  the  theatre.  The  poor  Squire  had  an  affectionate 
heart ;  he  would  fondle  children  with  tenderness,  and  at 

^  Carmen  Nuptiale :  Proem,  18. 


16  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

his  mother's  funeral  his  grief  was  overwhelming.  A  com- 
panion of  his  own  age  Southey  found  in  Shadrach  Weekes, 
the  boy  of  all  work,  a  brother  of  Miss  Tyler's  maid.  Shad 
and  his  young  master  would  scour  the  country  in  search 
of  violet  and  cowslip  roots,  and  the  bee  and  fly  orchis,  un- 
til wood  and  rock  by  the  side  of  the  Avon  had  grown  fa- 
miliar and  had  grown  dear;  and  now,  instead  of  solitary 
pricking  of  play-bills,  Southey  set  to  work,  with  the  help 
of  Shad,  to  make  and  fit  up  such  a  theatre  for  puppets  as 
would  have  been  the  pride  even  of  Wilhelm  Meister. 

But  fate  had  already  pronounced  that  Southey  was  to 
be  poet,  and  not  player.  Tasso  and  Ariosto  and  Spenser 
claimed  him,  or  so  he  dreamed.  By  this  time  he  had 
added  to  his  epic  cycle  Pope's  Homer  and  Mickle's  Lu- 
siad.  That  prose  romance,  embroidered  with  sixteenth- 
century  affectations,  but  with  a  true  chivalric  sentiment 
at  its  heart,  Sidney's  Arcadia,  was  also  known  to  him. 
He  had  read  Arabian  and  mock-Arabian  tales;  he  had 
spent  the  pocket-money  of  many  weeks  on  a  Josephus,  and 
he  had  picked  up  from  Goldsmith  something  of  Greek 
and  Roman  history.  So  breathed  upon  by  poetry,  and 
so  furnished  with  erudition,  Southey,  at  twelve  years  old, 
found  it  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  to  become  an 
epic  poet.  His  removal  from  the  old  Welshman's  school 
having  been  hastened  by  that  terrible  message  which  Miss 
Tyler  could  not  forgive,  Southey,  before  proceeding  to 
Westminster,  was  placed  for  a  year  under  a  clergyman, 
believed  to  be  competent  to  carry  his  pupils  beyond  Tity- 
rus  and  Meliboeus.  But,  except  some  skill  in  writing  Eng- 
lish themes,  little  was  gained  from  this  new  tutor.  The 
year,  however,  was  not  lost.  "I  do  not  remember," 
Southey  writes,  "  in  any  part  of  my  life  to  have  been 
so  conscious  of  intellectual  improvement ...  an  improve- 


I.]  CHILDHOOD.  lY 

ment  derived  not  from  books  or  instruction,  but  from 
constantly  exercising  myself  in  English  verse."  "Ar- 
cadia "  was  the  title  of  his  first  dream  -  poem  ;  it  was  to 
be  grafted  upon  the  Orlando  Furioso,  with  a  new  hero, 
and  in  a  new  scene ;  this  dated  from  his  ninth  or  tenth 
year,  and  some  verses  were  actually  composed.  The  epic 
of  the  Trojan  Brutus  and  that  of  King  Richard  III.  were 
soon  laid  aside,  but  several  folio  sheets  of  an  Egbert  came 
to  be  written.  The  boy's  pride  and  ambition  were  soli- 
tary and  shy.  One  day  he  found  a  lady,  a  visitor  of  Miss 
Tyler's,  with  the  sacred  sheets  of  Egbert  in  her  hand ;  her 
compliments  on  his  poem  were  deeply  resented ;  and  he 
determined  henceforth  to  write  his  epics  in  a  private 
cipher.  Heroic  epistles,  translations  from  Latin  poetry, 
satires,  descriptive  and  moral  pieces,  a  poem  in  dialogue 
exhibiting  the  story  of  the  Trojan  war,  followed  in  rapid 
succession;  last,  a  "  Cassibelan,"  of  which  three  books  were 
completed.  Southey,  looking  back  on  these  attempts, 
notices  their  deficiency  in  plan,  in  construction.  "  It  was 
long  before  I  acquired  this  power  —  not  fairly,  indeed, 
till  I  was  about  five  or  six  and  thirty ;  and  it  was  gained 
by  practice,  in  the  course  of  which  I  learnt  to  perceive 
wherein  I  was  deficient." 

One  day  in  February,  1788,  a  carriage  rumbled  out  of 
Bath,  containing  Miss  Palmer,  Miss  Tyler,  and  Robert 
Southey,  now  a  tall,  lank  boy  with  high-poised  head,  brown 
curling  hair,  bright  hazel  eyes,  and  an  expression  of  ardour 
and  energy  about  the  lips  and  chin.  The  ladies  were  on 
their  way  to  London  for  some  weeks'  diversion,  and  Rob- 
ert Southey  Avas  on  his  way  to  school  at  Westminster. 
For  a  while  he  remained  an  inconvenient  appendage  of 
his  aunt's,  wearying  of  the  great  city,  longing  for  Shad 
and  the  carpentry,  and  the  Gloucester  meadows  and  the 
2 


18  SOUTHEY.  [chap.  ii. 

Avon  cliffs,  and  the  honest  eyes  and  joyous  bark  of  poor 
Phillis.  April  the  first  —  ominous  morning  —  arrived ; 
South ey  was  driven  to  Dean's  Yard ;  his  name  was  duly 
entered ;  his  boarding-house  determined ;  his  tutor  cho- 
sen ;  farewells  were  said,  and  he  found  himself  in  a  strange 
world,  alone. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"WESTMINSTER,   OXFORD,  PANTISOCRACT,  AND    MARRIAGE. 

Of  Southey  during  his  four  years  at  Westminster  we  know 
little ;  his  fragment  of  autobiography,  having  brought  him 
to  the  school,  soon  comes  to  an  untimely  close ;  and  for 
this  period  we  possess  no  letters.  But  we  know  that  these 
were  years  which  contributed  much  to  form  his  intellect 
and  character;  we  know  that  they  were  years  of  ardour 
and  of  toil ;  and  it  is  certain  that  now,  as  heretofore,  his 
advance  was  less  dependent  on  what  pastors  and  masters 
did  for  him  than  on  what  he  did  for  himself.  The  highest 
scholarship — that  which  unites  precision  with  breadth,  and 
linguistic  science  with  literary  feeling — Southey  never  at- 
tained in  any  foreign  tongue,  except  perhaps  in  the  Portu- 
guese and  the  Spanish.  Whenever  the  choice  lay  between 
pausing  to  trace  out  a  law  of  language,  or  pushing  forward 
to  secure  a  good  armful  of  miscellaneous  facts,  Southey 
preferred  the  latter.  With  so  many  huge  structures  of  his 
own  in  contemplation,  he  could  not  gather  too  much  mate- 
rial, nor  gather  it  too  quickly.  Such  fortitude  as  goes  to 
make  great  scholars  he  possessed ;  his  store  of  patience  was 
inexhaustible ;  but  he  could  be  patient  only  in  pursuit  of 
his  proper  objects.  He  could  never  learn  a  language  in 
regular  fashion ;  the  best  grammar,  he  said,  was  always  the 


20  SOUTHET.  [cha? 

shortest.  Southey's  acquaintance  with  Greek  never  got 
beyond  that  stage  at  which  Greek,  like  fairy  gold,  is  apt 
to  slip  away  of  a  sudden  unless  kept  steadfastly  in  view  ; 
nearly  all  the  Greek  he  had  learnt  at  Westminster  he  for- 
got at  Oxford.  A  monkish  legend  in  Latin  of  the  Church 
or  a  mediaeval  Latin  chronicle  he  could  follow  with  the  run 
of  the  eye ;  but  had  he  at  any  season  of  his  manhood  been 
called  on  to  write  a  page  of  Latin  prose,  it  would  probably 
have  resembled  the  French  in  which  he  sometimes  sportive- 
ly addressed  his  friends  by  letter,  and  in  which  he  uttered 
himself  valiantly  while  travelling  abroad. 

Southey  brought  to  Westminster  an  imagination  stored 
with  the  marvels  and  the  beauty  of  old  romance.  He  left 
it  skilled  in  the  new  sentiment  of  the  time — a  sentiment 
which  found  in  Werther  and  Eloisa  its  dialect,  high-pitched, 
self-conscious,  rhapsodical,  and  not  wholly  real.  His  bias 
for  history  was  already  marked  before  he  entered  the 
school ;  but  his  knowledge  consisted  of  a  few  clusters  of 
historical  facts  grouped  around  the  subjects  of  various  pro- 
jected epics,  and  dotting  at  wide  distances  and  almost  at 
random  the  vast  expanse  of  time.  Now  he  made  acquaint- 
ance with  that  book  which,  more  than  any  other,  displays 
the  breadth,  the  variety,  and  the  independence  of  the  visi- 
ble lives  of  nations.  Gibbon's  Decline  and  Fall  leaves  a 
reader  cold  who  cares  only  to  quicken  his  own  inmost  be- 
ing by  contact  with  what  is  most  precious  in  man's  spirit- 
ual history ;  one  chapter  of  Augustine's  Confessions,  one 
sentence  of  the  Imitation — each  a  live  coal  from  off  the 
altar — will  be  of  more  worth  to  such  an  one  than  all  the 
mass  and  laboured  majesty  of  Gibbon.  But  one  who  can 
gaze  with  a  certain  impersonal  regard  on  the  spectacle  of 
the  world  will  find  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Em- 
pire, more  than  almost  any  other  single  book,  replenish  and 


II.]  WESTMINSTER.  21 

dilate  the  mind.  In  it  Soutbey  viewed  for  the  first  time 
the  sweep,  the  splendour,  the  coils,  the  mighty  movement, 
of  the  stream  of  human  affairs. 

Southey's  ambition  on  entering  Westminster  was  to  have 
the  friendship  of  the  youths  who  had  acted  in  the  last 
Westminster  play,  and  whose  names  he  had  seen  in  the 
newspaper.  Vain  hope  !  for  they,  already  preparing  to  tie 
their  hair  in  tails,  were  looking  onward  to  the  great  world, 
and  had  no  glance  to  cast  on  the  unnoted  figures  of  the 
«nder-fourth.  The  new-comer,  according  to  a  custom  of 
the  school,  was  for  a  time  effaced,  ceasing  to  exist  as  an  in- 
dividual entity,  and  being  known  only  as  "  shadow  "  of  the 
senior  boy  chosen  to  be  "  substance  "  to  him  during  his  no- 
viciate. Southey  accepted  his  effacement  the  more  will- 
ingly because  George  Strachey,  his  substance,  had  a  good 
face  and  a  kindly  heart ;  unluckily — Strachey  boarding  at 
home — they  were  parted  each  night.  A  mild  young  aris- 
tocrat, joining  little  with  the  others,  was  head  of  the  house ; 
and  Southey,  unprotected  by  his  chief,  stood  exposed  to 
the  tyranny  of  a  fellow-boarder  bigger  and  brawnier  than 
himself,  who  would  souse  the  ears  of  his  sleeping  victim 
with  water,  or  on  occasions  let  fly  the  porter -pot  or  the 
poker  at  his  head.  Aspiring  beyond  these  sallies  to  a 
larger  and  freer  style  of  humour,  he  attempted  one  day  to 
hang  Southey  out  of  an  upper  window  by  the  leg ;  the 
pleasantry  was  taken  ill  by  the  smaller  boy,  who  offered 
an  effectual  resistance,  and  soon  obtained  his  remove  to  an- 
other chamber.  Southey's  mature  judgment  of  boarding- 
school  life  was  not,  on  the  whole,  favourable ;  yet  to  West- 
minster he  owed  two  of  his  best  and  dearest  possessions — 
the  friendship  of  C.  W.  W.  Wynn,  whose  generous  loyalty 
alone  made  it  possible  for  Southey  to  pursue  literature  as 
his  profession,  and  the  friendship,  no  less  precious,  of  Gros- 


22  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

venor  Bedford,  lasting  green  and  fresh  from  boyhood  until 
both  were  white-haired,  venerable  men. 

Soutbey's  interest  in  boyish  sports  was  too  slight  to 
beguile  him  from  the  solitude  needful  for  the  growth  of 
a  poet's  mind.  He  had  thoughts  of  continuing  Ovid's 
Metamorphoses;  he  planned  six  books  to  complete  the 
Faery  Queen,  and  actually  wrote  some  cantos ;  already  the 
subject  of  Madoc  was  chosen.  And  now  a  gigantic  con- 
ception, which  at  a  later  time  was  to  bear  fruit  in  such 
poems  as  Thalaba  and  Kehama,  formed  itself  in  his  mind. 
"When  I  was  a  schoolboy  at  Westminster,"  he  writes, 
"I  frequented  the  house  of  a  schoolfellow  who  has  con- 
tinued till  this  day  to  be  one  of  my  most  intimate  and 
dearest  friends.  Tbe  house  was  so  near  Dean's  Yard  that 
it  was  hardly  considered  as  being  out  of  our  prescribed 
bounds ;  and  I  had  free  access  to  the  library,  a  well-stored 
and  pleasant  room  .  .  .  looking  over  the  river.  There 
many  of  my  truant  hours  were  delightfully  spent  in  read- 
ing Picart's  Religious  Ceremonies.  The  book  impressed 
my  imagination  strongly ;  and  before  I  left  school  I  had 
formed  the  intention  of  exhibiting  all  the  more  prominent 
and  poetical  forms  of  mythology,  which  have  at  any  time 
obtained  among  mankind,  by  making  each  the  ground- 
work of  an  heroic  poem."  Soutbey's  huge  design  was 
begotten  upon  his  pia  mater  by  a  folio  in  a  library.  A 
few  years  earlier  Wordsworth,  a  boy  of  fourteen,  walking 
between  Hawkshead  and  Ambleside,  noticed  the  boughs 
and  leaves  of  an  oak-tree  intensely  outlined  in  black  against 
a  bright  western  sky.  "  That  moment,"  he  says,  "  was 
important  in  my  poetical  history,  for  I  date  from  it  my 
consciousness  of  the  infinite  variety  of  natural  appearances 
which  had  been  unnoticed  by  the  poets  of  any  age  or 
country,  so  far  as  I  was  acquainted  with  them ;   and  I 


n.]  WESTMINSTER.  23 

made  a  resolution  to  supply  in  some  degree  the  deficiency." 
Two  remarkable  incidents  in  the  history  of  English  poetry, 
and  each  with  something  in  it  of  a  typical  character. 

At  Westminster  Southey  obtained  his  first  literary  prof- 
its— the  guerdon  of  the  silver  penny  to  which  Cowper  al- 
ludes in  his  Table-Talk.  Southey 's  penny  —  exchanged 
for  current  coin  in  the  proportion  of  six  to  one  by  the 
mistress  of  the  boarding-house — was  always  awarded  for 
English  composition.  But  his  fame  among  his  schoolfel- 
lows was  not  of  an  early  or  sudden  growth.  In  the  year 
of  Southey's  entrance,  some  of  the  senior  boys  commenced 
a  weekly  paper  called  The  Trifier.  It  imitates,  with  some 
skill,  the  periodical  essay  of  the  post-Johnsonian  period : 
there  is  the  wide-ranging  discussion  on  the  Influence  of 
Liberty  on  Genius ;  there  is  the  sprightly  sketch  of  Amelia, 
a  learned  Lady ;  there  is  the  moral  diatribe  on  Deists,  a 
Sect  of  Infidels  most  dangerous  to  Mankind ;  there  are  the 
letters  from  Numa  and  from  Infelix ;  there  is  the  Eastern 
apologue,  beginning,  "  In  the  city  of  Bassora  lived  Zaydor, 
the  son  of  Al-Zored."  Southey  lost  no  time  in  sending 
to  the  editor  his  latest  verses ;  a  baby  sister,  Margaretta, 
had  just  died,  and  Southey  expressed  in  elegy  a  grief  which 
was  real  and  keen.  "  The  Elegy  signed  B.  is  received  " — 
BO  Mr.  Timothy  Touchstone  announced  on  the  Saturday 
after  the  manuscript  had  been  dropped  into  the  penny 
post.  The  following  Saturday  —  anxiously  expected — 
brought  no  poem,  but  another  announcement :  "  The  El- 
egy by  B,  must  undergo  some  Alterations;  a  Liberty  I 
must  request  all  my  Correspondents  to  permit  me  to  take." 
"  After  this,"  says  Southey,  "  I  looked  for  its  appearance 
anxiously,  but  in  vain."  Happily  no  one  sought  to  dis- 
cover B.,  or  supposed  that  he  was  one  with  the  curly-head- 
ed boy  of  the  under-fourth. 


24  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

If  authorship  has  its  hours  of  disappointment,  it  has 
compensating  moments  of  glory  and  of  joy.  The  Trifler, 
having  lived  to  the  age  of  ten  months,  deceased.  In  1792 
Southey,  now  a  great  boy,  with  Strachey,  his  sometime 
"  substance,"  and  his  friends  Wynn  and  Bedford,  planned 
a  new  periodical  of  ill-omened  name,  The  Flagellant.  "  I 
well  remember  my  feelings,"  he  writes,  "  when  the  first 
number  appeared.  ...  It  was  Bedford's  writing,  but  that 
circumstance  did  not  prevent  me  from  feeling  that  I  was 
that  day  borne  into  the  world  as  an  author ;  and  if  ever 
my  head  touched  the  stars  while  I  walked  upon  the  earth, 
it  was  then.  ...  In  all  London  there  was  not  so  vain,  so 
happy,  so  elated  a  creature  as  I  was  that  day."  From  that 
starry  altitude  he  soon  descended.  The  subject  of  an 
early  number  of  The  Flagellant  was  flogging ;  the  writer 
was  Robert  Southey.  He  was  full  of  Gibbon  at  the  time, 
and  had  caught  some  of  Voltaire's  manner  of  poignant 
irony.  Rather  for  disport  of  his  wits  than  in  the  charac- 
ter of  a  reformer,  the  writer  of  number  five  undertook  to 
prove  from  the  ancients  and  the  Fathers  that  fiogging  was 
an  invention  of  the  devil.  During  Southey's  life  the  devil 
received  many  insults  at  his  hands ;  his  horns,  his  hoofs, 
his  teeth,  his  tail,  his  moral  character,  were  painfully  re- 
ferred to ;  and  the  devil  took  it,  like  a  sensible  fiend,  in 
good  part.  Not  so  Dr.  Vincent ;  the  preceptorial  dignity 
was  impugned  by  some  unmannerly  brat ;  a  bulwark  of 
the  British  Constitution  was  at  stake.  Dr.  Vincent  made 
haste  to  prosecute  the  publisher  for  libel.  Matters  having 
taken  unexpectedly  so  serious  a  turn,  Southey  came  for- 
ward, avowed  himself  the  writer,  and,  with  some  sense  of 
shame  in  yielding  to  resentment  so  unwarranted  and  so 
dull,  he  offered  his  apology.  The  head-master's  wrath  still 
held  on  its  way,  and  Southey  was  privately  expelled. 


n.]  WESTMINSTER.  26 

All  Southey's  truant  hours  were  not  passed  among  folios 
adorned  with  strange  sculptures.  In  those  days  even  St. 
Peter's  College,  Westminster,  could  be  no  little  landlocked 
bay — silent,  secure,  and  dull.  To  be  in  London  was  to  be 
among  the  tides  and  breakers  of  the  world.  Every  post 
brought  news  of  some  startling  or  significant  event.  Now 
it  was  that  George  Washington  had  been  elected  first  Pres- 
ident of  the  American  Republic ;  now  that  the  States-Gen- 
eral were  assembled  at  Versailles ;  now  that  Paris,  deliv- 
ered from  her  nightmare  towers  of  the  Bastille,  breathed 
free;  now  that  Brissot  was  petitioning  for  dethronement. 
The  main  issues  of  the  time  were  such  as  to  try  the  spirits. 
Southey,  who  was  aspiring,  hopeful,  and  courageous,  did 
not  hesitate  in  choosing  a  side ;  a  new  dawn  was  opening 
for  the  world,  and  should  not  his  heart  have  its  portion 
in  that  dawn  ? 

The  love  of  our  own  household  which  surrounds  us  like 
the  air,  and  which  seems  inevitable  as  our  daily  meat  and 
drink,  acquires  a  strange  preciousness  when  we  find  that 
the  world  can  be  harsh.  The  expelled  Westminster  boy 
returned  to  Bristol,  and  faithful  Aunt  Tyler  welcomed  him 
home ;  Shad  did  not  avert  his  face,  and  Phillis  looked  up 
at  him  with  her  soft  spaniel  eyes.  But  Bristol  also  had 
its  troubles ;  the  world  had  been  too  strong  for  the  poor 
linen-draper  in  Wine  Street ;  he  had  struggled  to  maintain 
his  business,  but  without  success ;  his  fortune  was  now 
broken,  and  his  heart  broke  with  it.  In  some  respects  it 
was  well  for  Southey  that  his  father's  affairs  gave  him  def- 
inite realities  to  attend  to ;  for,  in  the  quiet  and  vacancy  of 
the  days  in  Miss  Tyler's  house,  his  heart  took  unusual  heats 
and  chills,  and  even  his  eager  verse-writing  could  not  allay 
the  excitement  nor  avert  the  despondent  fit.  When  Mich- 
aelmas came,  Southey  went  up  to  Oxford  to  matriculate,* 
C     2*  2 


26  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

it  was  intended  that  he  should  enter  at  Christ  Church,  but 
the  dean  had  heard  of  the  escapade  at  Westminster;  there 
was  a  laying  of  big-wigs  together  over  that  adventure,  and 
the  young  rebel  was  rejected ;  to  be  received,  however,  by 
Balliol  College.  But  to  Southey  it  mattered  little  at  the 
time  whether  he  were  of  this  college  or  of  that ;  a  sum- 
mons had  reached  him  to  hasten  to  Bristol  that  he  might 
follow  his  father's  body  to  the  grave,  and  now  his  thoughts 
could  not  but  cling  to  his  mother  in  her  sorrow  and  her 
need. 

"  I  left  Westminster,"  says  Southey,  "  in  a  perilous  state 
— a  heart  full  of  poetry  and  feeling,  a  head  full  of  Rous- 
seau and  Werther,  and  my  religious  principles  shaken  by 
Gibbon :  many  circumstances  tended  to  give  me  a  wrong 
bias,  none  to  lead  me  right,  except  adversity,  the  whole- 
somest  of  all  discipline."  The  young  republican  went  up 
to  chambers  in  Rat  Castle — since  departed — near  the  head 
of  Balliol  Grove,  prepared  to  find  in  Oxford  the  scat  of 
pedantry,  prejudice,  and  aristocracy ;  an  airy  sense  of  his 
own  enlightenment  and  emancipation  possessed  him.  He 
has  to  learn  to  pay  respect  to  men  "  remarkable  only  for 
great  wigs  and  little  wisdom."  He  finds  it  "rather  dis- 
graceful at  the  moment  when  Europe  is  on  fire  with  free- 
dom— when  man  and  monarch  are  contending — to  sit  and 
study  Euclid  and  Hugo  Grotius."  Beside  the  enthusiasm 
proper  in  Southey's  nature,  there  was  at  this  time  an  en- 
thusiasm prepense.  He  had  learnt  from  his  foreign  masters 
the  language  of  hyper -sensibility;  his  temperament  was 
nervous  and  easily  wrought  upon ;  his  spirit  was  generous 
and  ardent.  Like  other  youths  with  a  facile  literary  talent 
before  finding  his  true  self,  he  created  a  number  of  artificial 
selves,  who  uttered  for  him  his  moralizings  and  philoso- 
phizings,  who  declaimed  for  him  on  liberty,  who  dictated 


n.]  OXFORD.  21 

long  letters  of  sentimental  platitudes,  and  who  built  up 
dream -fabrics  of  social  and  political  reforms,  chiefly  for 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  how  things  might  look  in  "the  brill- 
iant colours  of  fancy,  nature,  and  Rousseau."  In  this  there 
was  no  insincerity,  though  there  was  some  unreality.  "  For 
life,"  he  says,  "  I  have  really  a  very  strong  predilection," 
and  the  buoyant  energy  within  him  delayed  the  discoveiy 
of  the  bare  facts  of  existence ;  it  was  so  easy  and  enjoy- 
able to  become  in  turn  sage,  reformer,  and  enthusiast.  Or 
perhaps  we  ought  to  say  that  all  this  time  there  was  a  real 
Robert  Southey,  strong,  upright,  ardent,  simple;  and  al- 
though this  was  quite  too  plain  a  person  to  serve  the  pur- 
poses of  epistolary  literature,  it  was  he  who  gave  their  cues 
to  the  various  ideal  personages.  This,  at  least,  may  be  af- 
firmed— ail  Southey's  unrealities  were  of  a  pure  and  gener- 
ous cast;  never  was  his  life  emptied  of  truth  and  meaning, 
and  made  in  the  deepest  degree  phantasmal  by  a  secret 
shame  lurking  under  a  fair  show.  The  youth  Milton,  with 
his  grave  upbringing,  was  haf)pily  not  in  the  way  of  catch- 
ing the  trick  of  sentimental  phrases;  but  even  Milton  at 
Cambridge,  the  lady  of  his  College,  was  not  more  clean 
from  spot  or  blemish  than  was  Southey  amid  the  vulgar 
riot  and  animalisms  of  young  Oxford. 

Two  influences  came  to  the  aid  of  Southey's  instinctive 
modesty,  and  confirmed  him  in  all  that  was  good.  One 
was  his  friendship  with  Edmund  Seward,  too  soon  taken 
from  him  by  death.  The  other  was  his  discipleship  to  a 
great  master  of  conduct.  One  in  our  own  day  has  acknowl- 
edged the  largeness  of  his  debt  to 

"  That  halting  slave,  who  in  Nicopolis 

Taught  Arrian,  when  Vespasian's  brutal  son 

Clear'd  Rome  of  what  most  shamed  him." 
■6 


28  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

Epictetus  came  to  Soutliey  precisely  when  such  a  master 
was  needed ;  other  writers  had  affected  him  through  his 
imagination,  through  his  nervous  sensibility ;  they  had 
raised  around  him  a  luminous  haze ;  they  had  plunged 
him  deeper  in  illusion.  Now  was  heard  the  voice  of  a 
conscience  speaking  to  a  conscience  ;  the  manner  of  speech 
was  grave,  unfigured,  calm ;  above  all,  it  was  real,  and  the 
words  bore  in  upon  the  hearer's  soul  with  a  quiet  resist- 
lessness.  He  had  allowed  his  sensitiveness  to  set  up  what 
excitements  it  might  please  in  his  whole  moral  frame ;  he 
had  been  squandering  his  emotions;  he  had  been  indulg- 
ing in  a  luxury  and  waste  of  passion.  Here  was  a  tonic 
and  a  styptic.  Had  Southey  been  declamatory  about 
freedom  2  The  bondsman  Epictetus  spoke  of  freedom 
also,  and  of  how  it  might  be  obtained.  Epictetus,  like 
Rousseau,  told  of  a  life  according  to  nature ;  he  commend- 
ed simplicity  of  manners.  But  Rousseau's  simplicity,  not- 
withstanding that  homage  which  he  paid  to  the  will,  seem- 
ed to  heat  the  atmosphere  with  strange  passion,  seemed 
to  give  rise  to  new  curiosities  and  refinements  of  self-con- 
scious emotion.  Epictetus  showed  how  life  could  be  sim- 
plified, indeed,  by  bringing  it  into  obedience  to  a  perfect 
law.  Instead  of  a  quietism  haunted  by  feverish  dreams 
—  duty,  action,  co-operation  with  God.  "Twelve  years 
ago,"  wrote  Southey  in  1806,  "I  carried  Epictetus  in  my 
pocket  till  my  very  heart  was  ingrained  with  it,  as  a  pig's 
bones  become  red  by  feeding  him  upon  madder.  And 
the  longer  I  live,  and  the  more  I  learn,  the  more  am  I  con- 
vinced that  Stoicism,  properly  understood,  is  the  best  and 
noblest  of  systems."  Much  that  Southey  gained  from 
Stoicism  he  kept  throughout  his  whole  life,  tempered,  in- 
deed, by  the  influences  of  a  Christian  faith,  but  not  lost 
He  was  no  metaphysician,  and  a  master  who  had  placed 


II.]  OXFORD.  29 

metaphysics  first  and  morals  after  would  hardly  have  won 
him  for  a  disciple ;  but  a  lofty  ethical  doctrine  spoke  to 
what  was  deepest  and  most  real  in  his  nature.  To  trust 
in  an  over-ruling  Providence,  to  accept  the  disposal  of 
events  not  in  our  own  power  with  a  strenuous  loyalty  to 
our  Supreme  Ruler,  to  hold  loose  by  all  earthly  possessions 
even  the  dearest,  to  hold  loose  by  life  itself  while  putting 
it  to  fullest  use  —  these  lessons  he  first  learnt  from  the 
Stoic  slave,  and  he  forgot  none  of  them.  But  his  chief 
lesson  was  the  large  one  of  self -regulation,  that  it  is  a 
man's  prerogative  to  apply  the  reason  and  the  will  to  the 
government  of  conduct  and  to  the  formation  of  character. 
By  the  routine  of  lectures  and  examinations  Southey 
profited  little;  he  was  not  driven  into  active  revolt,  and 
that  was  all.  His  tutor,  half  a  democrat,  surprised  him  by 
praising  America,  and  asserting  the  right  of  every  country 
to  model  its  own  forms  of  government.  He  added,  with 
a  pleasing  frankness  which  deserves  to  be  imitated,  "  Mr. 
Southey,  you  won't  learn  anything  by  my  lectures,  sir ;  so, 
if  you  have  any  studies  of  your  own,  you  had  better  pur- 
sue them."  Of  all  the  months  of  his  life,  those  passed 
at  Oxford,  Southey  declared,  were  the  most  unprofitable. 
"All  I  learnt  was  a  little  swimming  .  .  .  and  a  little  boat- 
ing. ...  I  never  remember  to  have  dreamt  of  Oxford — a 
sure  proof  how  little  it  entered  into  my  moral  being;  of 
school,  on  the  contrary,  I  dream  perpetually."  The  mis- 
cellaneous society  of  workers,  idlers,  dunces,  bucks,  men  of 
muscle  and  men  of  money,  did  not  please  him ;  he  lacked 
what  Wordsworth  calls  "  the  congregating  temper  that 
pervades  our  unripe  years."  One  or  two  friends  he  chose, 
and  grappled  them  to  his  heart ;  above  all,  Seward,  who 
abridged  his  hours  of  sleep  for  sake  of  study  —  whose 
drink  was  water,  whose  breakfast  was  drv  bread ;  then, 


so  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

Wynn  and  Lightfoot.  Witli  Seward  he  sallied  forth,  in 
the  Easter  vacation,  1793,  for  a  holiday  excursion;  passed, 
with  "the  stupidity  of  a  democratic  philosopher,"  the  very 
walls  of  Blenheim,  without  turning  from  the  road  to  view 
the  ducal  palace ;  lingered  at  Evesham,  and  wandered 
through  its  ruined  Abbey,  indulging  in  some  passable  me- 
diaeval romancing ;  reached  Worcester  and  Kidderminster. 
"We  returned  by  Bewdley.  There  is  an  old  mansion,  once 
Lord  Herbert's,  now  mouldering  away,  in  so  romantic  a 
situation,  that  I  soon  lost  myself  in  dreams  of  days  of 
yore:  the  tapestried  room  —  the  listed  fight — the  vassal- 
filled  hall  —  the  hospitable  fire  —  the  old  baron  and  his 
young  daughter  —  these  formed  a  most  delightful  day- 
dream." The  youthful  democrat  did  not  suspect  that 
such  day-dreams  were  treasonable — a  hazardous  caressing 
of  the  wily  enchantress  of  the  past ;  in  his  pocket  he  car- 
ried Milton's  Defence^  which  may  have  been  his  amulet  of 
salvation.  Many  and  various  elements  could  mingle  in 
young  brains  a -seethe  with  revolution  and  romanticism. 
The  fresh  air  and  quickened  blood  at  least  put  Soutbey 
into  excellent  spirits.  "  We  must  walk  over  Scotland ;  it 
will  be  an  adventure  to  delight  us  all  the  remainder  of 
our  lives :  we  will  wander  over  the  hills  of  Morven,  and 
mark  the  driving  blast,  perchance  bestrodden  by  the  spirit 
of  Ossian !" 

Among  visitors  to  the  Wye,  in  July,  1793,  were  William 
Wordsworth,  recently  returned  from  France,  and  Robert 
Southey,  holiday  -  making  from  Oxford  ;  they  were  prob- 
ably unacquainted  with  each  other  at  that  time  even  by 
name.  Wordsworth  has  left  an  undying  memorial  of  his 
tour  in  the  poem  written  near  Tintern  Abbey,  five  years 
later.  Southey  was  drawing  a  long  breath  before  he  ut- 
tered himself  in   some  thousands  of  blank  verses.      The 


n.]  OXFORD.  31 

father  of  liis  friend  Bedford  resided  at  Brixton  Cause- 
way, about  four  miles  on  the  Surrey  side  of  London;  the 
smoke  of  the  great  city  hung  heavily  beyond  an  interven- 
ing breadth  of  country  ;  shady  lanes  led  to  the  neighbour- 
ing villages ;  the  garden  was  a  sunny  solitude  where  flow- 
ers opened  and  fruit  grew  mellow,  and  bees  and  birds  were 
happy.  Here  Southey  visited  his  friend ;  his  nineteenth 
birthday  came  ;  on  the  following  morning  he  planted  him- 
self at  the  desk  in  the  garden  summer-house;  morning 
after  morning  quickly  passed  ;  and  by  the  end  of  six 
weeks  Joan  of  Arc,  an  epic  poem  in  twelve  books,  was 
written.  To  the  subject  Southey  was  attracted  primarily 
by  the  exalted  character  of  his  heroine ;  but  apart  from 
this  it  possessed  a  twofold  interest  for  him  :  England,  in 
1793,  was  engaged  in  a  war  against  France — a  war  hateful 
to  all  who  sympathized  with  the  Republic ;  Southey's  epic 
was  a  celebration  of  the  glories  of  French  patriotism,  a 
narrative  of  victory  over  the  invader.  It  was  also  chival- 
ric  and  mediaeval ;  the  sentiment  which  was  transforming 
the  word  Gothic,  from  a  term  of  reproach  to  a  word  of 
vague  yet  mastering  fascination,  found  expression  in  the 
young  poet's  treatment  of  the  story  of  Joan  of  Arc. 
Knight  and  hermit,  prince  and  prelate,  doctors  seraphic 
and  irrefragable  with  their  pupils,  meet  in  it ;  the  castle 
and  the  cathedral  confront  one  another :  windows  gleam 
with  many-coloured  light  streaming  through  the  rich  robes 
of  saint  and  prophet ;  a  miracle  of  carven  tracery  branches 
overhead  ;  upon  the  altar  burns  the  mystic  lamp. 

The  rough  draft  of  Joan  was  hardly  laid  aside  when 
Southey's  sympathies  with  the  revolutionary  movement 
in  France,  strained  already  to  the  utmost  point  of  tension, 
were  fatally  rent.  All  his  faith,  all  his  hope,  were  given 
to  the  Girondin  party ;  and  from  the  Girondins  he  had 


32  SOUTHEY,  [chap. 

singled  out  Brissot  as  his  ideal  of  political  courage,  purity, 
and  wisdom.  Brissot,  like  himself,  was  a  disciple  of  Jean 
Jacques ;  his  life  was  austere ;  he  had  suffered  on  behalf 
of  freedom.  On  the  day  when  the  Bastille  was  stormed, 
its  keys  were  placed  in  Brissot's  hands;  it  was  Brissot 
who  had  determined  that  war  should  be  declared  against 
the  foreign  foes  of  the  Republic.  But  now  the  Girondins 
. — following  hard  upon  Marie  Antoinette  —  were  in  the 
death-carts ;  they  chanted  their  last  hymn  of  liberty,  ever 
growing  fainter  while  the  axe  lopped  head  after  head ;  and 
Brissot  was  among  the  martyrs  (October  31, 1793).  Prob- 
ably no  other  public  event  so  deeply  affected  Southey.  "  I 
am  sick  of  the  world,"  he  writes,  "  and  discontented  with 
every  one  in  it.  The  murder  of  Brissot  has  completely 
harrowed  up  my  faculties.  ...  I  look  round  the  world, 
and  everywhere  find  the  same  spectacle  —  the  strong  tyr- 
annizing over  the  weak,  man  and  beast.  .  .  .  There  is  no 
place  for  virtue." 

After  this,  though  Southey  did  not  lose  faith  in  demo- 
cratic principles,  he  averted  his  eyes  for  a  time  from 
France  :  how  could  he  look  to  butchers  who  had  shed 
blood  which  was  the  very  life  of  liberty,  for  the  reali- 
zation of  his  dreams?  And  whither  should  he  look? 
Had  he  but  ten  thousand  republicans  like  himself,  they 
might  repeople  Greece  and  expel  the  Turk.  Being  but 
one,  might  not  Cowley's  fancy,  a  cottage  in  America,  be 
transformed  into  a  fact :  "  three  rooms  .  .  .  and  my  only 
companion  some  poor  negro  whom  I  have  bought  on  pur- 
pose to  emancipate  ?"  Meanwhile  he  occupied  a  room  in 
Aunt  Tyler's  house,  and,  instead  of  swinging  the  axe  in 
some  forest  primeval,  amused  himself  with  splitting  a 
wedge  of  oak  in  company  with  Shad,  who  might,  perhaps, 
serve  for  the  emancipated  negro.     Moreover,  he  was  very 


II.]  OXFORD.  33 

diligently  driving  his  quill :  "  I  have  finished  transcribing 
Joan^  and  have  bound  her  in  marble  paper  with  green  rib- 
bons, and  am  now  copying  all  my  remainables  to  carry  to 
Oxford.  Then  once  more  a  clear  field,  and  then  another 
epic  poem,  and  then  another."  Appalling  announcement ! 
"  I  have  accomplished  a  most  arduous  task,  transcribing 
all  my  verses  that  appear  worth  the  trouble,  except  let- 
ters. Of  these  I  took  one  list — another  of  my  pile  of  stuff 
and  nonsense  —  and  a  third  of  what  I  have  burnt  and 
lost;  upon  an  average  10,000  verses  are  burnt  and  lost; 
the  same  number  preserved,  and  15,000  worthless."  Such 
sad  mechanic  exercise  dulled  the  ache  in  Southey's  heart ; 
still  "  the  visions  of  futurity,"  he  finds,  "  are  dark  and 
gloomy,  and  the  only  ray  that  enlivens  the  scene  beams 
on  America." 

To  Balliol  Southey  returned ;  and  if  the  future  of  the 
world  seemed  perplexing,  so  also  did  his  individual  future. 
His  school  and  college  expenses  were  borne  by  Mrs.  South- 
ey's brother,  the  Rev.  Herbert  Hill,  chaplain  to  the  British 
Factory  at  Lisbon.  In  him  the  fatherless  youth  found  one 
who  was  both  a  friend  and  a  father.  Holbein's  portrait 
of  Sir  Thomas  More  in  his  best  years  might  have  passed 
for  that  of  Mr.  Hill ;  there  was  the  same  benign  thought- 
fulness  in  his  aspect,  the  same  earnest  calm,  the  same 
brightness  and  quietness,  the  same  serene  and  cheerful 
strength.  He  was  generous  and  judicious,  learned  and 
modest,  and  his  goodness  carried  authority  with  it.  Uncle 
Hill's  plan  had  been  that  Southey,  like  himself,  should  be- 
come an  English  clergyman.  But  though  he  might  have 
preached  from  an  Unitarian  pulpit,  Southey  could  not  take 
upon  himself  the  vows  of  a  minister  of  the  Church  of 
England.  It  would  have  instantly  relieved  his  mother  had 
he  entered  into  orders.     He  longed  that  this  were  possible, 


34  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

and  ■went  through  many  conflicts  of  mind,  and  not  a  little 
anguish.  "  God  knows  I  would  exchange  every  intellectu- 
al gift  which  He  has  blessed  me  with,  for  implicit  faith  to 
have  been  able  to  do  this ;"  but  it  could  not  be.  To  bear 
the  reproaches,  gentle  yet  grave,  of  his  uncle  was  hard;  to 
grieve  his  mother  was  harder.  Southey  resolved  to  go  to 
the  anatomy  school,  and  fit  himself  to  be  a  doctor.  But 
he  could  not  overcome  his  strong  repugnance  to  the  dis- 
secting-room ;  it  expelled  him  whether  he  would  or  no ; 
and  all  the  time  literature,  with  still  yet  audible  voice,  was 
summoning  him.  Might  he  not  obtain  some  official  em- 
ployment in  London,  and  also  pursue  his  true  calling? 
Beside  the  desire  of  pleasing  his  uncle  and  of  aiding  his 
mother,  the  Stoic  of  twenty  had  now  a  stronger  motive 
for  seeking  some  immediate  livelihood.  "  I  shall  joyfully 
bid  adieu  to  Oxford,"  he  writes,  "...  and,  when  I  know 
my  situation,  unite  myself  to  a  woman  whom  I  have  long 
esteemed  as  a  sister,  and  for  whom  I  now  indulge  a  warm- 
er sentiment."  But  Southey's  reputation  as  a  dangerous 
Jacobin  stood  in  his  way ;  how  could  his  Oxford  overseers 
answer  for  the  good  behaviour  of  a  youth  who  spoke 
scornfully  of  Pitt  I 

The  shuttles  of  the  fates  now  began  to  fly  faster,  and 
the  threads  to  twist  and  twine.  It  was  June  of  the  year 
1794.  A  visitor  from  Cambridge  was  one  day  introduced 
to  Southey ;  he  seemed  to  be  of  an  age  near  his  own ;  his 
hair,  parted  in  the  middle,  fell  wavy  upon  his  neck ;  his  face, 
when  the  brooding  cloud  was  not  upon  him,  was  bright 
with  an  abundant  promise  —  a  promise  vaguely  told  in 
lines  of  the  sweet  full  lips,  in  the  luminous  eyes,  and  the 
forehead  that  was  like  a  god's.  This  meeting  of  Southey 
and  Coleridge  was  an  event  which  decided  much  in  the 
careers  of  both.     In  the  summer  days  and  in  youth,  the 


11.]  PANTISOCRACY.  35 

meeting-time  of  spirits,  they  were  drawn  close  to  one  an- 
other. Both  had  confessions  to  make,  with  many  points 
in  common  ;  both  were  poets  ;  both  were  democrats  ;  botk 
had  hoped  hirgely  from  France,  and  the  hopes  of  both  had 
been  darkened;  both  were  uncertain  what  part  to  take  in 
life.  We  do  not  know  whether  Coleridge  quickly  grew 
so  confidential  as  to  tell  of  his  recent  adventure  as  Silas 
Titus  Comberbatch  of  the  15th  Light  Dragoons.  But  we 
know  that  Coleridge  had  a  lively  admiration  for  the  tall 
Oxford  student — a  person  of  distinction,  so  dignified,  so 
courteous,  so  quick  of  apprehension,  so  full  of  knowledge, 
with  a  glance  so  rapid  and  piercing,  with  a  smile  so  good 
and  kind.  And  we  know  that  Coleridge  lost  no  time  in 
communicating  to  Southey  the  hopes  that  were  nearest  to 
his  heart. 

Pantisocracy,  word  of  magic,  summed  up  these  hopes. 
Was  it  not  possible  for  a  number  of  men  like  themselves, 
whose  way  of  thinking  was  liberal,  whose  characters  were 
tried  and  incorruptible,  to  join  together  and  leave  this  old 
world  of  falling  thrones  and  rival  anarchies,  for  the  woods 
and  wilds  of  the  young  republic  ?  One  could  wield  an 
axe,  another  could  guide  a  plough.  Their  wants  would  be 
simple  and  natural ;  their  toil  need  not  be  such  as  the 
slaves  of  luxury  endure ;  where  possessions  were  held  in 
common,  each  would  work  for  all ;  in  their  cottages  the 
best  books  would  have  a  place ;  literature  and  science, 
bathed  anew  in  the  invigorating  stream  of  life  and  nature, 
could  not  but  rise  reanimated  and  purified.  Each  young 
man  should  take  to  himself  a  mild  and  lovely  woman  for 
his  wife  ;  it  would  be  her  part  to  prepare  their  innocent 
food,  and  tend  their  hardy  and  beautiful  race.  So  they 
would  bring  back  the  patriarchal  age,  and  in  the  sober 
evening  of  life  they  would  behold  "  colonies  of  indepen- 


36  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

dence  in  the  undivided  dale  of  industry."  All  the  argu- 
ments in  favour  of  such  a  scheme  could  not  be  set  forth 
in  a  conversation,  but  Coleridge,  to  silence  objectors,  would 
publish  a  quarto  volume  on  Pantisocracy  and  Aspheterism. 

Southey  heartily  assented ;  his  own  thoughts  had,  with 
a  vague  forefeeling,  been  pointing  to  America ;  the  un- 
published epic  would  serve  to  buy  a  spade,  a  plough,  a  few 
acres  of  ground  ;  he  could  assuredly  split  timber ;  he  knew 
a  mild  and  lovely  woman  for  whom  he  indulged  a  warmer 
sentiment  than  that  of  a  brother.  Robert  Lovell,  a  Quak- 
er, an  enthusiast,  a  poet,  married  to  the  sister  of  Southey's 
Edith,  would  surely  join  them  ;  so  would  Burnett,  his  col- 
lege friend ;  so,  perhaps,  would  the  admirable  Seward.  The 
long  vacation  was  at  hand.  Being  unable  to  take  orders, 
or  to  endure  the  horrors  of  the  dissecting-room,  Southey 
must  no  longer  remain  a  burden  upon  his  uncle ;  he  would 
quit  the  university  and  prepare  for  the  voyage. 

Coleridge  departed  to  tramp  it  through  the  romantic  val- 
leys and  mountains  of  Wales.  Southey  joined  his  moth- 
er, who  now  lived  at  Bath,  and  her  he  soon  persuaded — 
as  a  handsome  and  eloquent  son  can  persuade  a  loving 
mother — that  the  plan  of  emigration  was  feasible;  she 
even  consented  to  accompany  her  boy.  But  his  aunt — 
an  esprit  borne — was  not  to  hear  a  breath  of  Pantisocracy ; 
still  less  would  it  be  prudent  to  confess  to  her  his  engage- 
ment to  Miss  Edith  Fricker.  His  Edith  was  penniless, 
and  therefore  all  the  dearer  to  Southey ;  her  father  had 
been  an  unsuccessful  manufacturer  of  sugar -pans.  What 
would  Miss  Tyler,  the  friend  of  Lady  Bateman,  feel? 
What  words,  what  gestures,  what  acts,  would  give  her  feel- 
ings relief  ? 

When  Coleridge,  after  his  Welsh  wanderings,  arrived  in 
Bristol,  he  was  introduced  to  Lovell,  to  Mrs.  Lovell,  to  Mrs. 


n.]  PANTISOCRACY.  37 

Lovell's  sisters,  Edith  and  Sarah,  and  Martha  and  Elizabeth. 
Mrs,  Lovell  was  doubtless  already  a  pantisocrat ;  Southey 
had  probably  not  found  it  difficult  to  convert  Edith ;  Sarah, 
the  elder  sister,  who  was  wont  to  look  a  mild  reproof  on 
over-daring  speculations,  seriously  inclined  to  hear  of  pan- 
tisocracy  from  the  lips  of  Coleridge.  All  members  of  the 
community  were  to  be  married.  Coleridge  now  more  than 
ever  saw  the  propriety  of  that  rule;  he  was  prepared  to 
yield  obedience  to  it  with  the  least  possible  delay.  Bur- 
nett, also  a  pantisocrat,  must  also  marry.  Would  Miss 
Martha  Fricker  join  the  community  as  Mrs.  George  Bur- 
nett ?  The  lively  little  woman  refused  him  scornfully ;  if 
he  wanted  a  wife  in  a  hurry,  let  him  go  elsewhere.  The 
prospects  of  the  reformers,  this  misadventure  notwithstand- 
ing, from  day  to  day  grew  brighter.  "  This  Pantisocratic 
scheme,"  so  writes  Southey,  "  has  given  me  new  life,  new 
hope,  new  energy ;  all  the  faculties  of  my  mind  are  dilated." 
Coleridge  met  a  friend  of  Priestley's.  But  a  few  days 
since  he  had  toasted  the  great  doctor  at  Bala,  thereby  call- 
ing forth  a  sentiment  from  the  loyal  parish  apothecary  :  "  I 
gives  a  sentiment,  gemmen  !  May  all  republicans  be  gullo- 
teened !"  The  friend  of  Priestley's  said  that  without  doubt 
the  doctor  would  join  them.  An  American  land-agent  told 
them  that  for  twelve  men  2000^.  would  do.  "  He  recom- 
mends the  Susquehanna,  from  its  excessive  beauty  and  its 
security  from  hostile  Indians."  The  very  name — Susque- 
hanna— sounded  as  if  it  were  the  sweetest  of  rippling  riv- 
ers. Money,  it  is  true,  as  Southey  admits,  "  is  a  huge  evil ;" 
but  now  they  are  twenty-seven,  and  by  resolute  men  this 
difficulty  can  be  overcome. 

It  was  evening  of  the  iVth  of  October,  a  dark  and  gusty 
evening  of  falling  rain  and  miry  ways.  Within  Aunt  Ty- 
ler's house  in  College  Green,  Bristol,  a  storm  was  burst- 


38  SOUTHEY.  [cuap. 

ing ;  she  had  heard  it  all  at  last — Pantisocracy,  America, 
Miss  Fricker.  Out  of  the  house  he  must  march;  there 
was  the  door ;  let  her  never  see  his  face  again.  Southey 
took  his  hat,  looked  for  the  last  time  in  his  life  at  his  aunt, 
then  stepped  out  into  the  darkness  and  the  rain.  "  Why, 
sir,  you  ben't  going  to  Bath  at  this  time  of  night  and  in 
this  weather  ?"  remonstrated  poor  Shadrach.  Even  so  ;  and 
with  a  friendly  whisper  master  and  man  parted.  Southey 
had  not  a  penny  in  his  pocket,  and  was  lightly  clad.  At 
Lovell's  he  luckily  found  his  father's  great-coat;  he  swal- 
lowed a  glass  of  brandy  and  set  off  on  foot.  Misery  makes 
one  acquainted  with  strange  road-fellows.  On  the  way  he 
came  upon  an  old  man,  drunk,  and  hardly  able  to  stumble 
forward  through  the  night :  the  young  pantisocrat,  mind- 
ful of  his  fellow-man,  dragged  him  along  nine  miles  amid 
rain  and  mire.  Then,  with  weary  feet,  he  reached  Bath, 
and  there  was  his  mother  to  greet  him  with  surprise,  and 
to  ask  for  explanations.  "  Oh,  Patience,  Patience,  thou 
hast  often  helped  poor  Robert  Southey,  but  never  didst 
thou  stand  him  in  more  need  than  on  Friday,  the  l7th  of 
October,  1794." 

For  a  little  longer  the  bow  of  hope  shone  in  the  West, 
somewhere  over  the  Susquehanna,  and  then  it  gradually 
grew  faint  and  faded.  Money,  that  huge  evil,  sneered  its 
cold  negations.  The  chiefs  consulted,  and  Southey  pro- 
posed that  a  house  and  farm  should  be  taken  in  Wales, 
whei'e  their  principles  might  be  acted  out  until  better  days 
enabled  them  to  start  upon  their  voyage.  One  pantisocrat, 
at  least,  could  be  happy  with  Edith,  brown  bread,  and  wild 
Welsh  raspberries.  But  Coleridge  objected ;  their  princi- 
ples could  not  be  fairly  tested  under  the  disadvantage  of 
an  effete  and  adverse  social  state  surrounding  them ;  be- 
sides, where  was  the  purchase-money  to  come  from  ?  how 


II.]  PANTISOCRACY.  39 

were  they  to  live  until  the  gathering  of  their  first  crops? 
It  became  clear  that  the  realization  of  their  plan  must  be 
postponed.  The  immediate  problem  was,  How  to  raise 
150/.  ?  With  such  a  sum  they  might  both  qualify  by  mar- 
riage for  membership  in  the  pantisocratical  community. 
After  that,  the  rest  would  somehow  follow. 

How,  then,  to  raise  150/.  ?  Might  they  not  start  a  new 
magazine  and  become  joint  editors  ?  The  Telegraph  had 
offered  employment  to  Southey.  "  Hireling  writer  to  a 
newspaper !  'Sdeath !  'tis  an  ugly  title ;  but  n'importe. 
I  shall  write  truth,  and  only  truth."  The  offer,  however, 
turned  out  to  be  that  of  a  reporter's  place;  and  his  trou- 
blesome guest,  honesty,  prevented  his  contributing  to  The 
True  Briton.  But  he  and  Coleridge  could  at  least  write 
poetry,  and  perhaps  publish  it  with  advantage  to  them- 
selves ;  and  they  could  lecture  to  a  Bristol  audience.  With 
some  skirmishing  lectures  on  various  political  subjects  of 
immediate  interest,  Coleridge  began ;  many  came  to  hear 
them,  and  the  applause  was  loud.  Thus  encouraged,  he 
announced  and  delivered  two  remarkable  courses  of  lect- 
ures— one,  A  Comparative  View  of  the  English  RehelUon 
under  Charles  I.  and  the  French  Revolution ;  the  other, 
On  Revealed  Religion :  its  Corruptions  and  its  Political 
Views.  Southey  did  not  feel  tempted  to  discuss  the  origin 
of  evil  or  the  principles  of  revolution.  He  chose  as  his 
subject  a  view  of  the  course  of  European  history  from 
Solon  and.  Lycurgus  to  the  American  War.  His  heai-ers 
were  pleased  by  the  graceful  delivery  and  unassuming  self- 
possession  of  the  young  lecturer,  and  were  quick  to  recog- 
nize the  unusual  range  of  his  knowledge,  his  just  perception 
of  facts,  his  ardour  and  energy  of  conviction.  One  lecture 
Coleridge  begged  permission  to  deliver  in  Southey's  place 
— that  on  the  Rise,  Progress,  and  Decline  of  the  Roman 


40  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

Empire.  Southey  consented,  and  the  room  was  thronged ; 
but  no  lecturer  appeared;  they  waited;  still  no  lecturer. 
Southey  offered  an  apology,  and  the  crowd  dispersed  in  no 
happy  temper.  It  is  likely,  adds  that  good  old  gossip  Cot- 
tle, who  tells  the  story,  "  that  at  this  very  moment  Mr. 
Coleridge  might  have  been  found  at  No.  48  College  Street, 
composedly  smoking  his  pipe,  and  lost  in  profound  musings 
on  his  divine  Susquehanna." 

The  good  Cottle — young  in  1795,  a  publisher,  and  un- 
happily a  poet — rendered  more  important  service  to  the 
two  young  men  than  that  of  smoothing  down  their  ruffled 
tempers  after  this  incident.  Southey,  in  conjunction  with 
Lovell,  had  already  published  a  slender  volume  of  verse. 
The  pieces  by  Southey  recall  his  schoolboy  joys  and  sor- 
rows, and  tell  of  his  mother's  tears,  his  father's  death,  his 
friendship  with  '*  Urban,"  his  love  of  "Ariste,"  lovely 
maid  !  his  delight  in  old  romance,  his  discipleship  to  Rous- 
seau. They  are  chiefly  of  interest  as  exhibiting  the  diverse 
literary  influences  to  which  a  young  writer  of  genius  was 
exposed  in  the  last  quarter  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Here 
the  couplet  of  Pope  reappears,  and  hard  by  the  irregular 
ode  as  practised  by  Akenside,  the  elegy  as  written  by  Gray, 
the  unrhymed  stanza  which  Collins's  Evening  made  a  fash- 
ion, the  sonnet  to  which  Bowles  had  lent  a  meditative  grace, 
and  the  rhymeless  measures  imitated  by  Southey  from 
Sayers,  and  afterwards  made  popular  by  his  Thalaba.  On 
the  last  page  of  this  volume  appear  "  Proposals  for  pub- 
lishing by  subscription  Joan  of  Arc  ;"  but  subscriptions 
came  slowly  in.  One  evening  Southey  read  for  Cottle 
some  books  of  Joan.  "  It  can  rarely  happen,"  he  writes, 
"  that  a  young  author  should  meet  with  a  bookseller  as  in- 
experienced and  as  ardent  as  himself."  Cottle  offered  to 
publish  the  poem  in  quarto,  to  make  it  the  handsomest 


n.]  PANTISOCRACY.  41 

book  ever  printed  in  Bristol,  to  give  the  author  fifty  copies 
for  his  subscribers,  and  fifty  pounds  to  put  fortliwith  into 
his  purse.  Some  dramatic  attempts  had  recently  been 
made  by  Southey,  Wat  Tyler,  of  which  we  shall  hear 
more  at  a  later  date,  and  the  Fall  of  Robespierre,  under- 
taken by  Coleridge,  Lovell,  and  Southey,  half  in  sport — 
each  being  pledged  to  produce  an  act  in  twenty -four 
hours.  These  were  now  forgotten,  and  all  his  energies 
were  given  to  revising  and  in  part  recasting  Joan.  In 
six  weeks  his  epic  had  been  written ;  its  revision  occupied 
six  months. 

With  summer  came  a  great  sorrow,  and  in  the  end  of 
autumn  a  measureless  joy.  "  He  is  dead,"  Southey  writes, 
"  my  dear  Edmund  Seward  !  after  six  weeks'  suffering.  .  .  . 
You  know  not,  Grosvenor,  how  I  loved  poor  Edmund :  he 
taught  me  all  that  I  have  of  good.  .  .  .  There  is  a  strange 
vacancy  in  my  heart.  ...  I  have  lost  a  friend,  and  such 
a  one !"  And  then  characteristically  come  the  words : 
"  I  will  try,  by  assiduous  employment,  to  get  rid  of  very 
melancholy  thoughts."  Another  consolation  Southey  pos- 
sessed :  during  his  whole  life  he  steadfastly  believed  that 
death  is  but  the  removal  of  a  spirit  from  earth  to  heaven ; 
and  heaven  for  hira  meant  a  place  where  cheerful  famil- 
iarity was  natural,  where,  perhaps,  he  himself  would  write 
more  epics  and  purchase  more  folios.  As  Baxter  expected 
to  meet  among  the  saints  above  Mr.  Hampden  and  Mr.  Pym, 
so  Southey  counted  upon  the  pleasure  of  having  long  talks 
Avith  friends,  of  obtaining  introductions  to  eminent  stran- 
gers ;  above  all,  he  looked  forward  to  the  joy  of  again  em- 
bracing his  beloved  ones : 

"  Often  together  have  we  talked  of  death  ; 
How  sweet  it  were  to  see 
All  doubtfiil  things  made  clear ; 
1>      3  4 


42  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

How  sweet  it  were  with  powers 

Such  as  the  Cherubim 
To  view  the  depth  of  Heaven  1 

O  Edmund  !  thou  hast  first 
Begun  the  travel  of  eternity." 

Autumn  brought  its  happiness  pure  and  deep.  Mr.  Hill 
had  arrived  from  Lisbon ;  once  again  he  urged  his  nephew 
to  enter  the  church ;  but  for  one  of  Southey's  opinions  the 
church-gate  "  is  perjury,"  nor  does  he  even  find  church-go- 
ing the  best  mode  of  spending  his  Sunday.  He  proposed 
to  choose  the  law  as  his  profession.  But  his  uncle  had 
heard  of  Pantisocracy,  Aspheterism,  and  Miss  Fricker,  and 
said  the  law  could  wait ;  he  should  go  abroad  for  six  months, 
see  Spain  and  Portugal,  learn  foreign  languages,  read  for- 
eign poetry  and  history,  rummage  among  the  books  and 
manuscripts  his  uncle  had  collected  in  Lisbon,  and  after- 
wards return  to  his  Blackstone.  Southey,  straightforward 
in  all  else,  in  love  became  a  Machiavel.  To  Spain  and 
Portugal  he  would  go ;  his  mother  wished  it ;  Cottle  ex- 
pected from  him  a  volume  of  travels ;  his  uncle  had  but 
to  name  the  day.  Then  he  sought  Edith,  and  asked  her 
to  promise  that  before  he  departed  she  would  become  his 
wife :  she  wept  to  think  that  he  was  going,  and  yet  per- 
suaded him  to  go ;  consented,  finally,  to  all  that  he  pro- 
posed. But  how  was  he  to  pay  the  marriage  fees  and  buy 
the  wedding-ring  ?  Often  this  autumn  he  had  walked  the 
streets  dinnerless,  no  pence  in  his  pocket,  no  bread  and 
cheese  at  his  lodgings,  thinking  little,  however,  of  dinner, 
for  his  head  was  full  of  poetry  and  his  heart  oi  love.  Cot- 
tle lent  him  money  for  the  ring  and  the  license  —  and 
Southey  in  after -years  never  forgot  the  kindness  of  his 
honest  friend.  He  was  to  accompany  his  uncle,  but  Edith 
was  first  to  be  his  own ;  so  she  may  honourably  accept 


II.]  MARRIAGE,  43 

from  Mm  whatever  means  he  can  furnish  for  her  support. 
It  was  arranged  with  Cottle's  sisters  that  she  should  live 
with  them,  and  still  call  herself  by  her  maiden  name.  On 
the  morning  of  the  14th  of  November,  1795 — a  day  sad, 
yet  with  happiness  underlying  all  sadness — Robert  Southey 
was  married  in  Redclitfe  Church,  Bristol,  to  Edith  Fricker. 
At  the  church  door  there  was  a  pressure  of  hands,  and  they 
parted  with  full  hearts,  silently — Mrs.  Southey  to  take  up 
her  abode  in  Bristol,  with  the  wedding-ring  upon  her  breast, 
her  husband  to  cross  the  sea.  Never  did  woman  put  her 
happiness  in  more  loyal  keeping. 

So  by  love  and  by  poetry,  by  Edith  Fricker  and  by 
Joan  of  Arc,  Southey's  life  was  being  shaped.  Powers 
most  benign  leaned  forward  to  brood  over  the  coming 
years  and  to  bless  them.  It  was  decreed  that  his  heart 
should  be  no  homeless  wanderer ;  that,  as  seasons  went  by, 
children  should  be  in  his  arms  and  upon  his  knees :  it  was 
also  decreed  that  he  should  become  a  strong  toiler  among 
books.  Now  Pantisocracy  looked  faint  and  far  ;  the  facts 
plain  and  enduring  of  the  actual  world  took  hold  of  his 
adult  spirit.  And  Coleridge  complained  of  this,  and  did 
not  come  to  bid  his  friend  farewell. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"WANDERINGS,   1795 1803. 

Through  pastoral  Somerset,  through  Devon  amid  falling 
leaves,  then  over  rough  Cornish  roads,  the  coach  brought 
Southey — cold,  hungry,  and  dispirited — to  Falmouth.  No 
packet  there  for  Coranna ;  no  packet  starting  before  De- 
cember 1st.  The  gap  of  time  looked  colourless  and  dreary, 
nor  could  even  the  pbilosophy  of  Epictetus  lift  him  quite 
above  "the  things  independent  of  the  will."  After  a  com- 
fortless and  stormy  voyage,  on  the  fifth  morning  the  sun 
shone,  and  through  a  mist  the  barren  cliffs  of  Galicia,  with 
breakers  tumbling  at  their  feet,  rose  in  sight.  Who  has 
not  experienced,  when  first  he  has  touched  a  foreign  soil, 
how  nature  purges  the  visual  nerve  with  lucky  euphrasy  ? 
The  shadowy  streets,  the  latticed  houses,  the  fountains,  the 
fragments  of  Moorish  architecture,  the  Jewish  faces  of  the 
men,  the  lustrous  eyes  of  girls,  the  children  gaily  bediz- 
ened, the  old  witch -like  women  with  brown  shrivelled 
parchment  for  skin,  told  Southey  that  he  was  far  from 
home.  Nor  at  night  was  he  permitted  to  forget  his 
whereabouts ;  out  of  doors  cats  were  uttering  soft  things 
in  most  vile  Spanish  ;  beneath  his  blanket,  familiars,  blood- 
thirsty as  those  of  the  Inquisition,  made  him  their  own. 
He  was  not  sorry  when  the  crazy  coach,  drawn  by  six 
mules,  received  him  and  his  uncle,  and  the  journey  east- 


CHAP.  III.]  WANDERINGS,  1795—1803.  46 

ward  began  to  the  shout  of  the  muleteers  and  the  clink  of 
a  hundred  bells. 

Some  eighteen  days  were  spent  upon  the  road  to  Ma- 
drid. Had  Southey  not  left  half  his  life  behind  liini  in 
Bristol,  those  December  days  would  have  been  almost 
wholly  pleasurable.  As  it  was,  they  yielded  a  large  posses- 
sion for  the  inner  eye,  and  gave  his  heart  a  hold  upon  this 
new  land  which,  in  a  certain  sense,  became  for  ever  after 
the  land  of  his  adoption.  It  was  pleasant  when,  having 
gone  forward  on  foot,  he  reached  the  crest  of  some  moun- 
tain road,  to  look  down  on  broken  waters  in  the  glen,  and 
across  to  the  little  white-walled  convent  amid  its  chestnuts, 
and  back  to  the  dim  ocean  ;  there,  on  the  summit,  to  rest 
with  the  odour  of  furze  blossoms  and  the  tinkle  of  goats 
in  the  air,  and,  while  the  mules  wound  up  the  long  ascent, 
to  turn  all  this  into  hasty  rhymes,  ending  with  the  thought 
of  peace,  and  love,  and  Edith.  Then  the  bells  audibly  ap- 
proaching, and  the  loud-voiced  muleteer  consigning  his 
struggling  team  to  Saint  Michael  and  three  hundred  dev- 
ils ;  and  then  on  to  remoter  hills,  or  moor  and  swamp,  or 
the  bridge  flung  across  a  ravine,  or  the  path  above  a  preci- 
pice, with  mist  and  moonlight  below.  And  next  day  some 
walled  city,  with  its  decaying  towers  and  dim  piazza ;  some 
church,  with  its  balcony  of  ghastly  skulls ;  some  abandon- 
ed castle,  or  jasper- pillared  Moorish  gateway  and  gallery. 
Nor  were  the  little  inns  and  baiting-houses  without  com- 
pensations for  their  manifold  discomforts.  The  Spanish 
country-folk  were,  dirty  and  ignorant,  but  they  had  a  cour- 
tesy unknown  to  English  peasants ;  Southey  would  join 
the  group  around  the  kitchen  fire,  and  be,  as  far  as  his  im- 
perfect speech  allowed,  one  with  the  rustics,  the  carriers, 
the  hostess,  the  children,  the  village  barber,  the  familiar 
priest,  and  the  familiar  pigs.      When   chambermaid  Jo- 


46  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

sepha  took  hold  of  his  hair  and  gravely  advised  him  never 
to  tie  it  or  to  wear  powder,  she  meant  simple  friendliness, 
no  more.  In  his  recoil  from  the  dream  of  human  perfec- 
tibility, Southey  allowed  himself  at  times  to  square  ac- 
counts with  common-sense  by  a  cynical  outbreak ;  but,  in 
truth,  he  was  a  warm-hearted  lover  of  his  kind.  Even  feu- 
dalism and  Catholicism  had  not  utterly  degraded  the  Span- 
iard. Southey  thanks  God  that  the  pride  of  chivalry  is 
extinguished ;  his  Protestant  zeal  becomes  deep  -  dyed  in 
presence  of  our  Lady  of  Seven  Sorrows  and  the  Holy 
Napkin.  "  Here,  in  the  words  of  Mary  Wollstonecraft," 
he  writes,  " '  the  serious  folly  of  Superstition  stares  every 
man  of  sense  in  the  face.' "  Yet  Spain  has  inherited  ten- 
der and  glorious  memories;  by  the  river  Ezla  he  recalls 
Montemayor's  wooing  of  his  Diana ;  at  Tordesillas  he 
muses  on  the  spot  where  Queen  Joanna  watched  by  her 
husband's  corpse,  and  where  Padilla,  Martyr  of  Freedom, 
triumphed  and  endured.  At  length  the  travellers,  accom- 
panied by  Manuel,  the  most  vivacious  and  accomplished  of 
barbers,  drew  near  Madrid,  passed  the  miles  of  kneeling 
washerwomen  and  outspread  clothes  on  the  river  banks, 
entered  the  city,  put  up  at  the  Cruz  de  Malta,  and  were 
not  ill-content  to  procure  once  more  a  well-cooked  supper 
and  a  clean  bed. 

Southey  pursued  with  ardour  his  study  of  the  Spanish 
language,  and  could  soon  talk  learnedly  of  its  great  writers. 
The  national  theatres,  and  the  sorry  spectacle  of  bullock- 
teasing,  made  a  slighter  impression  upon  him  than  did  the 
cloisters  of  the  new  Franciscan  Convent.  He  had  been 
meditating  his  design  of  a  series  of  poems  to  illustrate  the 
mythologies  of  the  world ;  here  the  whole  portentous  his- 
tory of  St.  Francis  was  displayed  upon  the  walls.  "  Do 
they  believe  all  this,  sir  ?"  he  asked  Mr.  Hill.     "  Yes,  and 


ui.]  WANDERINGS,  1795—1803.  47 

a  great  deal  more  of  the  same  kind,"  was  the  reply.  "  My 
first  thought  was  .  .  .  here  is  a  mythology  not  less  wild 
and  fanciful  than  any  of  those  upon  which  my  imagina- 
tion was  employed,  and  one  which  ought  to  be  included 
in  mj  ambitious  design."  Thus  Southey's  attention  was. 
drawn  for  the  first  time  to  the  legendary  and  monastic 
history  of  the  Church. 

His  Majesty  of  Spain,  with  his  courtesans  and  his  cour- 
tiers, possibly  also  with  the  Queen  and  her  gallants,  had 
gone  westward  to  meet  the  Portuguese  court  upon  the 
borders.  As  a  matter  of  course,  therefore,  no  traveller 
could  hope  to  leave  Madrid,  every  carriage,  cart,  horse,  mule, 
and  ass  being  embargoed  for  the  royal  service.  The  fol- 
lowers of  the  father  of  his  people  numbered  seven  thou- 
sand, and  they  advanced,  devouring  all  before  them,  neither 
paying  nor  promising  to  pay,  leaving  a  broad  track  behind 
as  bare  as  that  stripped  by  an  army  of  locusts,  with  here 
a  weeping  cottager,  and  there  a  smoking  cork-tree,  for  a 
memorial  of  their  march.  Ten  days  after  the  king's  de- 
parture, Mr.  Hill  and  his  nephew  succeeded  in  finding  a 
buggy  with  two  mules,  and  made  their  escape,  taking  with 
them  their  own  larder.  Their  destination  was  Lisbon,  and 
as  they  drew  towards  the  royal  party,  the  risk  of  embargo 
added  a  zest  to  travel  hardly  less  piquant  than  that  impart- 
ed by  the  neighbourhood  of  bandits.  It  was  mid-January ; 
the  mountains  shone  with  snow ;  but  olive-gathering  had 
begun  in  the  plains ;  violets  were  in  blossom,  and  in  the 
air  was  a  genial  warmth.  As  they  drove  south  and  west, 
the  younger  traveller  noted  for  his  diary  the  first  appear- 
ance of  orange  -  trees,  the  first  myrtle,  the  first  fence  of 
aloes.  A  pressure  was  on  their  spirits  till  Lisbon  should 
be  reached ;  they  would  not  linger  to  watch  the  sad  pro- 
cession attending  a  body  uncovered  upon  its  bier;  they 


48  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

left  behind  the  pilgrims  to  our  Ladj-'s  Shrine,  pious  bac- 
chanals half  naked  and  half  drunk,  advancing  to  the  tune 
of  bagpipe  and  drum ;  then  the  gleam  of  waters  before 
them,  a  rough  two  hours'  passage,  and  the  weary  heads 
were  on  their  pillows,  to  be  roused  before  morning  by  an 
earthquake,  with  its  sudden  trembling  and  cracking. 

Life  at  Lisbon  was  not  altogether  after  Southey's  heart. 
His  uncle's  books  and  manuscripts  were  indeed  a  treasure 
to  explore,  but  Mr.  Hill  lived  in  society  as  well  as  in  his 
study,  and  thought  it  right  to  give  his  nephew  the  advan- 
tage of  new  acquaintances.  What  had  the  author  of  Joan 
of  Arc,  the  husband  of  Edith  Southey,  the  disciple  of 
Rousseau,  of  Godwin,  the  Stoic,  the  tall,  dark-eyed  young 
man  with  a  certain  wildness  of  expression  in  his  face, 
standing  alone  or  discoursing  earnestly  on  Industrial  Com- 
munities of  Women — what  had  he  to  do  with  the  inania 
regiia  of  the  drawing-room  ?  He  cared  not  for  cards  nor 
for  dancing ;  he  possessed  no  gift  for  turning  the  leaves 
on  the  harpsichord,  and  saying  the  happy  word  at  the 
right  moment.  Southey,  indeed,  knew  as  little  as  possible 
of  music ;  and  all  through  his  life  acted  on  the  principle 
that  the  worthiest  use  of  sound  without  sense  had  been 
long  ago  discovered  by  schoolboys  let  loose  from  their 
tasks ;  he  loved  to  create  a  chaos  of  sheer  noise  after  those 
hours  during  which  silence  had  been  interrupted  only  by 
the  scraping  of  his  pen.  For  the  rest,  the  sallies  of  glee 
from  a  mountain  brook,  the  piping  of  a  thrush  from  the 
orchard-bough,  would  have  delighted  him  more  than  all 
the  trills  of  Sontag  or  the  finest  rapture  of  Malibran.  It 
was  with  some  of  the  superiority  and  seriousness  of  a 
philosopher  just  out  of  his  teens  that  he  unbent  to  the 
frivolities  of  the  Lisbon  drawing-rooms. 

But  if  Lisbon  had  its  vexations,  the  country,  the  climate, 


lu.]  WANDERINGS,  1795—1803.  49 

the  mountains  with  their  streams  and  coohiess,  the  odorous 
gardens,  Tagus  flashing  in  the  sunlight,  the  rough  bar  glit- 
tering with  white  breakers,  and  the  Atlantic,  made  amends. 
"When  April  came,  Mr.  Uill  moved  to  his  house  at  Cintra, 
and  the  memories  and  sensations  "felt  in  the  blood  and 
felt  along  the  heart,"  which  Southey  brought  with  him 
to  England,  were  especially  associated  with  this  delightful 
retreat.  "Never  was  a  house  more  completely  secluded 
than  my  uncle's :  it  is  so  surrounded  with  lemon-trees  and 
laurels  as  nowhere  to  be  visible  at  the  distance  of  ten 
yards.  ...  A  little  stream  of  water  runs  down  the  hill 
before  the  door,  another  door  opens  into  a  lemon-garden, 
and  from  the  sitting-room  we  have  just  such  a  prospect 
over  lemon -trees  and  laurels  to  an  opposite  hill  as,  by 
promising  a  better,  invites  us  to  walk.  .  .  .  On  one  of  the 
mountain  eminences  stands  the  Penha  Convent,  visible 
from  the  hills  near  Lisbon.  On  another  are  the  ruins  of 
a  Moorish  castle,  and  a  cistern,  within  its  boundaries,  kept 
always  full  by  a  spring  of  purest  water  that  rises  in  it. 
From  this  elevation  the  eye  stretches  over  a  bare  and  mel- 
ancholy country  to  Lisbon  on  the  one  side,  and  on  the 
other  to  the  distant  Convent  of  Mafra,  the  Atlantic  bound- 
ing the  greater  part  of  the  prospect.  I  never  beheld  a 
view  that  so  effectually  checked  the  wish  of  wandering." 

"  Lisbon,  from  which  God  grant  me  a  speedy  deliver- 
ance," is  the  heading  of  one  of  Southey's  letters ;  but 
when  the  day  came  to  look  on  Lisbon  perhaps  for  the  last 
time,  his  heart  gi'ew  heavy  with  happy  recollection.  It 
was  with  no  regretful  feeling,  however,  that  he  leaped 
ashore,  glad,  after  all,  to  exchange  the  sparkling  Tagus  and 
the  lemon  groves  of  Portugal  for  the  mud-encumbered 
tide  of  Avon  and  a  glimpse  of  British  smoke.  "  I  intend 
to  write  a  hymn,"  he  says,  "  to  the  Dii  Penates."  His  joy 
3* 


60  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

in  reunion  with  liis  wife  was  made  more  rare  and  tender 
by  finding  her  in  sorrow ;  the  grief  was  also  peculiarly  his 
own — Lovell  was  dead.  He  had  been  taken  ill  at  Salis- 
bury, and  by  his  haste  to  reach  his  fireside  had  heightened 
the  fever  which  hung  upon  him.  Coleridge,  writing  to 
his  friend  Poole  at  this  time,  expresses  himself  with  amia- 
ble but  inactive  piety  :  "  The  widow  is  calm,  and  amused 
with  her  beautiful  infant.  We  are  all  become  more  relig- 
ious than  we  were.  God  be  ever  praised  for  all  things," 
Southey  also  writes  characteristically  :  "  Poor  Lovell !  I 
am  in  hopes  of  raising  something  for  his  widow  by  pub- 
lishing his  best  pieces,  if  only  enough  to  buy  her  a  harp- 
sichord. .  .  .  Will  you  procure  me  some  subscribers  ?" 
No  idle  conceit  of  serving  her;  for  Mrs.  Lovell  with  her 
child,  as  well  as  Mrs.  Coleridge  with  her  children,  at  a 
later  time  became  members  of  the  Southey  household. 
Already — though  Coleridge  might  resent  it — Southey  was 
willing  to  part  with  some  vague  enthusiasms  which  wan- 
dered in  the  inane  of  a  young  man's  fancy,  for  the  sake 
of  simple  loyalties  and  manly  tendernesses.  No  one  was 
more  boyish-hearted  than  Southey  at  fifty ;  but  even  at 
twenty-two  it  would  not  have  been  surprising  to  find  grey 
hairs  sprinkling  the  dark.  "  How  does  time  mellow  down 
our  opinions !  Little  of  that  ardent  enthusiasm  which  so 
lately  fevered  my  whole  character  remains.  I  have  con- 
tracted my  sphere  of  action  within  the  little  circle  of  my 
own  friends,  and  even  my  wishes  seldom  stray  beyond 
it.  .  .  .  I  want  a  little  room  to  arrange  my  books  in,  and 
some  Lares  of  my  own."  This  domestic  feeling  was  not 
a  besotted  contentment  in  narrow  interests ;  no  man  was 
more  deeply  moved  by  the  political  changes  in  his  own 
country,  by  the  national  uprising  in  the  Spanish  peninsula, 
than  Southey.    While  seated  at  his  desk,  his  intellect  ranged 


Ti.]  WANDERINGS,  1795—1803.  51 

through  dim  centuries  of  the  past.  But  his  heart  needed 
an  abiding-place,  and  he  yielded  to  the  bonds — strict  and 
dear — of  duty  and  of  love  which  bound  his  own  life  to 
the  lives  of  others. 

The  ambitious  quarto  on  which  Cottle  prided  himself 
not  a  little  was  now  published  (1796).  To  assign  its  true 
place  to  Joan  of  Arc,  we  must  remember  that  narrative 
poetry  in  the  eighteenth  century  was  of  the  slenderest 
dimensions  and  the  most  modest  temper.  Poems  of 
description  and  sentiment  seemed  to  leave  no  place  for 
poems  of  action  and  passion.  Delicately  finished  cabinet 
pictures,  like  Shenstone's  Schoolmistress  and  Goldsmith's 
Deserted  Village,  had  superseded  fresco.  The  only  great 
English  epic  of  that  century  is  the  prose  Odyssey  of  which 
Mr.  Tom  Jones  is  the  hero.  That  estimable  London  mer- 
chant, Glover,  had  indeed  written  an  heroic  poem  contain- 
ing the  correct  number  of  Books  ;  its  subject  was  a  lofty 
one ;  the  sentiments  wei'e  generous,  the  language  digni- 
fied ;  and  inasmuch  as  Leonidas  was  a  patriot  and  a  Whig, 
true  Whigs  and  patriots  bought  and  praised  the  poem. 
But  Glover's  poetry  lacks  the  informing  breath  of  Ufe. 
His  second  poem.  The  Athenaid,  appeared  after  his  death, 
and  its  thirty  books  fell  plumb  into  the  water  of  oblivion. 
It  looked  as  if  the  narrative  poem  a  longue  haleine  was 
dead  in  English  literature.  Cowper  had  given  breadth, 
with  a  mingled  gaiety  and  gravity,  to  the  poetry  of  de- 
scription and  sentiment ;  Burns  had  made  the  air  tremu- 
lous with  snatches  of  pure  and  thrilling  song;  tha  Lyrical 
Ballads  were  not  yet.  At  this  moment,  from  a  provin- 
cial press,  Joan  of  Arc  was  issued.  As  a  piece  of  roman- 
tic narrative  it  belongs  to  the  new  age  of  poetry  ;  in  senti- 
ment it  is  revolutionary  and  republican ;  its  garment  of 
style  is  of  the  eighteenth  century.     Nowhere,  except  it  be 


52  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

in  the  verses  which  hail  "  Inoculation,  lovely  Maid !"  does 
the  personified  abstraction,  galvanized  into  life  by  print- 
er's type  and  poet's  epithet,  stalk  more  at  large  than 
in  the  unfortunate  ninth  book,  the  Vision  of  the  Maid, 
which  William  Taylor,  of  Norwich,  pronounced  worthy  of 
Dante.  The  critical  reviews  of  the  time  were  liberal  in 
politics,  and  the  poem  was  praised  and  bought.  "  Brissot 
murdered  "  was  good,  and  "  the  blameless  wife  of  Roland  " 
atoned  for  some  offences  against  taste ;  there  was  also  that 
notable  reference  to  the  "  Almighty  people  "  who  "  from 
their  tyrant's  hand  dashed  down  the  iron  rod."  The  del- 
egated maid  is  a  creature  overflowing  with  Rousseauish 
sensibility  ;  virtue,  innocence,  the  peaceful  cot,  stand  over 
against  the  wars  and  tyranny  of  kings,  and  the  supersti- 
tion and  cruelty  of  prelates.  Southey  himself  soon  dis- 
relished the  youthful  heats  and  violences  of  the  poem ;  he 
valued  it  as  the  work  which  first  lifted  him  into  public 
view  ;  and,  partly  out  of  a  kind  of  gratitude,  he  rehandled 
the  Joan  again  and  again.  It  would  furnish  an  instruc- 
tive lesson  to  a  young  writer  to  note  how  its  asperities 
were  softened,  its  spasm  subdued,  its  swelling  words  abated. 
Yet  its  chief  interest  will  be  perceived  only  by  readers  of 
the  earlier  text.  To  the  second  book  Coleridge  contrib- 
uted some  four  hundred  lines,  where  Platonic  philosophy 
and  protests  against  the  Newtonian  hypothesis  of  aether 
are  not  very  appropriately  brought  into  connexion  with 
the  shepherd  -  girl  of  Domremi.  These  lines  disappeared 
from  all  editions  after  the  first.' 

1  I  find  in  a  Catalogue  of  English  Poetry,  1862,  the  following 
passage  from  an  autograph  letter  of  S.  T.  Coleridge,  dated  Bristol, 
July  16,  1814,  then  in  Mr.  Pickering's  possession:  "I  looked  over 
the  first  five  books  of  the  first  (quarto)  edition  of  Joan  of  Arc  yes- 
terday, at  Hood's  request,  in  order  to  mark  the  lines  written  by  me. 


III.]  WANDERINGS,  1795—1803.  53 

The  neighbourliood  of  Bristol  was  for  the  present 
Southcy's  home.  The  quickening  of  his  blood  by  the 
beauty,  the  air  and  sun,  of  Southern  Europe,  the  sense 
of  power  imparted  by  his  achievement  in  poetry,  the  joy 
of  reunion  with  his  young  wife,  the  joy,  also,  of  solitude 
among  rocks  and  woods,  combined  to  throw  him  into  a 
vivid  and  creative  mood.  His  head  was  full  of  designs 
for  tragedies,  epics,  novels,  romances,  tales — among  the 
rest,  "  My  Oriental  poem  of  The  Destruction  of  the  Dom 
Daniel."  He  has  a  "  Helicon  kind  of  dropsy  "  upon  him  ; 
he  had  rather  leave  off  eating  than  poetizing.  He  was 
also  engaged  in  making  the  promised  book  of  travel  for 
Cottle ;  in  what  leisure  time  remained  after  these  employ- 
ments he  scribbled  for  The  Monthly  Magazine,  and  to 
good  purpose,  for  in  eight  months  he  had  earned  no  less 
than  "  seven  pounds  and  two  pair  of  breeches,"  which,  as 
he  observes  to  his  brother  Tom,  "  is  not  amiss."  He  was 
resolved  to  be  happy,  and  he  was  happy.  Now,  too,  the 
foolish  estrangement  on  Coleridge's  part  was  brought  to 
an  end.  Southey  had  been  making  some  acquaintance 
with  German  literature  at  second  hand.  He  had  read 
Taylor's  rendering  of  Biirger's  Lenore,  and  wondered  who 
this  William  Taylor  was ;  he  had  read  Schiller's  Cabal  and 
Love  in  a  wretched  translation,  finding  the  fifth  act  dread- 
fully affecting;  he  had  also  read  Schiller's  Fiesco.  Cole- 
ridge was  just  back  after  a  visit  to  Birmingham,  but  still 

I  was  really  astonished — 1,  at  the  schoolboy,  wretched  allegoric  ma- 
chinery; 2,  at  the  transmogrification  of  the  fanatic  Virago  into  a 
modern  Novel-pawing  proselyte  of  the  Age  of  Reason,  a  Tom  Paine 
in  petticoats,  but  so  lovely  !  and  in  love  more  dear !  '  On  her  ruhied 
cheek  hung  pity'' s  crystal  gem  ;''  3,  at  the  utter  want  of  all  rhythm  ia 
the  verse,  the  monotony  and  the  dead  plumb  down  of  the  pauses,  and 
of  the  absence  of  all  bone,  muscle,  and  sinew  in  the  sin;;le  lines." 


54  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

held  o£E  from  his  brother-in-law  and  former  friend.  A 
sentence  from  Schiller,  copied  on  a  slip  of  paper  by  South- 
ey,  with  a  word  or  two  of  conciliation,  was  sent  to  the 
offended  Abdiel  of  Pantisocracy :  "  Fiesco  !  Fiesco !  thou 
leavest  a  void  in  my  bosom,  which  the  human  race,  thrice 
told,  will  never  fill  up."  It  did  not  take  much  to  melt  the 
faint  resentment  of  Coleridge,  and  to  open  his  liberal  heart. 
An  interview  followed,  and  in  an  hour's  time,  as  the  story 
is  told  by  Coleridge's  nephew,  "  these  two  extraordinary 
youths  were  arm  in  arm  again." 

Seven  pounds  and  two  pair  of  breeches  are  not  amiss, 
but  pounds  take  to  themselves  wings,  and  fly  away :  a 
poet's  wealth  is  commonly  in  the  j}aulo-'po8t-futuruin 
tense;  it  therefore  behoved  Southey  to  proceed  with  his 
intended  study  of  the  law.  By  Christmas  he  would  re- 
ceive the  first  instalment  of  an  annual  allowance  of  160/. 
promised  by  his  generous  friend  Wynn  upon  coming  of 
age ;  but  Southey,  who  had  just  written  his  Hymn  to  the 
Penates — a  poem  of  grave  tenderness  and  sober  beauty — 
knew  that  those  deities  are  exact  in  their  demand  for  the 
dues  of  fire  and  salt,  for  the  firstlings  of  fruits,  and  for  of- 
ferings of  fine  flour.  A  hundred  and  sixty  pounds  would 
not  appease  them".  To  London,  therefore,  he  must  go,  and 
Blackstone  must  become  his  counsellor.  But  never  did 
Sindbad  suffer  from  the  tyrannous  old  man  between  his 
shoulders  as  Robert  Southey  suffered  from  Blackstone. 
London  in  itself  meant  deprivation  of  all  that  he  most 
cared  for ;  he  loved  to  shape  his  life  in  large  and  simple 
lines,  and  London  seemed  to  scribble  over  his  conscious- 
ness with  distractions  and  intricacies.  "  My  spirits  always 
sink  when  I  approach  it.  Green  fields  are  my  delight. 
I  am  not  only  better  in  health,  but  even  in  heart,  in  the 
country."     Some  of  his  father's  love  of  rural  sights  and 


m.]  WANDERINGS,  1795—1803.  55 

sounds  was  in  him,  thougli  hare-hunting  was  not  an  amuse- 
ment of  Southey  the  younger ;  he  was  as  little  of  a  isports- 
man  as  his  friend  Sir  Thomas  More :  the  only  murderous 
sport,  indeed,  which  Southey  ever  engaged  in  was  that  of 
pistol-shooting,  with  sand  for  ammunition,  at  the  wasps  in 
Bedford's  garden,  when  he  needed  a  diversion  from  the  wars 
of  Talbot  and  the  "missioned  Maid."  Two  pleasures  of 
a  rare  kind  London  offered — the  presence  of  old  friends, 
and  the  pursuit  of  old  books  upon  the  stalls.  But  not 
even  for  these  best  lures  proposed  by  the  Demon  of  the 
place  would  Southey  renounce 

"The  genial  influences 
And  thoughts  and  feelings  to  be  found  where'er 
We  breathe  beneath  the  open  sky,  and  see 
Earth's  liberal  bosom." 

To  London,  however,  he  would  go,  and  would  read  nine 
hours  a  day  at  law.  Although  he  pleaded  at  times  against 
his  intended  profession,  Southey  really  made  a  strenuous 
effort  to  overcome  his  repugnance  to  legal  studies,  and  for 
a  while  Blackstone  and  Madoc  seemed  to  advance  side  by 
side.  But  the  bent  of  his  nature  was  strong.  "  I  com- 
mit wilful  murder  on  my  own  intellect,"  he  writes,  two 
years  later,  "  by  drudging  at  law."  And  the  worst  or  the 
best  of  it  was  that  all  his  drudgery  was  useless.  Southey's 
memory  was  of  that  serviceable,  sieve-like  kind  which  re- 
tains everything  needful  to  its  possessor,  and  drops  every- 
thing which  is  mere  incumbrance.  Every  circumstance  in 
the  remotest  degree  connected  with  the  seminary  of  ma- 
gicians in  the  Dom  Daniel  under  the  roots  of  the  sea  ad- 
hered to  his  memory,  but  how  to  proceed  in  the  Court  of 
Common  Pleas  was  ahvays  just  forgotten  since  yesterday. 
"  I  am  not  indolent ;  I  loathe  indolence ;  but,  indeed,  read- 


56  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

ing  law  is  laborious  indolence — it  is  thrashing  straw.  .  .  . 
I  have  given  all  possible  attention,  and  attempted  to  com- 
mand volition ;  .  .  .  close  the  book  and  all  was  gone."  In 
1801  there  was  a  chance  of  Southey's  visiting  Sicily  as 
secretary  to  some  Italian  Legation.  "  It  is  unfortunate," 
he  writes  to  Bedford,  "  that  you  cannot  come  to  the  sac- 
rifice of  one  law-book — my  whole  proper  stock — whom  I 
design  to  take  up  to  the  top  of  Mount  Etna,  for  the  ex- 
press purpose  of  throwing  him  straight  to  the  devil.  Huz- 
za, Grosvenor !  I  was  once  afraid  that  I  should  have  a  dead- 
ly deal  of  law  to  forget  whenever  I  had  done  with  it ;  but 
my  brains,  God  bless  them,  never  received  any,  and  I  am  as 
Ignorant  as  heart  could  wish.  The  tares  would  not  grow." 
As  spring  advanced,  impatience  quickened  wuthin  him ; 
the  craving  for  a  lonely  place  in  sight  of  something  green 
became  too  strong.  Why  might  not  law  be  read  in  Hamp- 
shire under  blue  skies,  and  also  poetry  be  written  ?  South- 
ey  longed  to  fill  his  eyesight  with  the  sea,  and  with  sun- 
sets over  the  sea ;  he  longed  to  renew  that  delicious  shock 
of  plunging  in  salt  waves  which  he  had  last  enjoyed  in  the 
Atlantic  at  the  foot  of  the  glorious  Arrabida  mountain. 
Lodgings  were  found  at  Burton,  near  Christ  Church  (lV97) ; 
and  here  took  place  a  little  Southey  family-gathering,  for 
his  mother  joined  them,  and  his  brother  Tom,  the  mid- 
shipman, just  released  from  a  French  prison.  Here,  too, 
came  Cottle,  and  there  were  talks  about  the  new  volume 
of  shorter  poems.  Here  came  Lloyd,  the  friend  of  Cole- 
ridge, himself  a  writer  of  verse ;  and  with  Lloyd  came 
Lamb,  the  play  of  whose  letters  show  that  he  found  in 
Southey  not  only  a  fellow-lover  of  quaint  books,  but  also 
a  ready  smiler  at  quips  and  cranks  and  twinklings  of  sly 
absurdity.  And  here  he  found  John  Eickman,  "  the  stur- 
diest of  jovial  companions,"  whose  clear  head  and  stout 


in.]  WANDERINGS,  1795—1803.  61 

heart  were  at  Southey's  service  whenever  they  were  need- 
ed through  all  the  future  years. 

When  the  holiday  at  Burton  was  at  an  end  Southey 
had  for  a  time  no  fixed  abode.  He  is  now  to  be  seen 
roaming  over  the  cliffs  by  the  Avon,  and  now  casting  a 
glance  across  some  book-stall  near  Gray's  Inn.  In  these 
and  subsequent  visits  to  London  he  was  wistful  for  home, 
and  eager  to  hasten  back.  "At  last,  my  dear  Edith,  I  sit 
down  to  write  to  you  in  quiet  and  something  like  com- 
fort. .  .  .  My  morning  has  been  spent  pleasantly,  for  it  has 
been  spent  alone  in  the  library ;  the  hours  so  employed 
pass  rapidly  enough,  but  I  grow  more  and  more  home- 
sick, like  a  spoilt  child.  On  the  29th  you  may  expect  me. 
Term  opens  on  the  26th.  After  eating  my  third  dinner,  I 
can  drive  to  the  mail,  and  thirteen  shillings  will  be  well 
bestowed  in  bringing  me  home  four-and-twenty  hours  ear- 
lier: it  is  not  above  sixpence  an  hour,  Edith,  and  I  would 
gladly  purchase  an  hour  at  home  now  at  a  much  higher 
price." 

A  visit  to  Norwich  (1798)  was  pleasant  and  useful,  as 
widening  the  circle  of  his  literary  friends.  Here  Southey 
obtained  an  introduction  to  William  Taylor,  whose  trans- 
lations from  the  German  had  previously  attracted  his  no- 
tice. Norwich,  at  the  end  of  the  last  century  and  the  be- 
ginning of  the  present,  was  a  little  Academe  among  pro- 
vincial cities,  where  the  belles-lettres  and  mutual  admira- 
tion were  assiduously  cultivated.  Southey  saw  Norwich 
at  its  best.  Among  its  "  superior  people "  were  several 
who  really  deserved  something  better  than  that  vague  dis- 
tinction. Chief  among  them  was  Dr.  Sayers,  whom  the 
German  critics  compared  to  Gray,  who  had  handled  the 
Norse  mythology  in  poetry,  who  created  the  English  mon- 
odrame,  and  introduced  the  rhymeless  measures  followed 
5 


68  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

by  Southey.  He  rested  too  soon  upon  his  well-earned 
reputation,  contented  himself  with  touching  and  retouch- 
ing his  verses  ;  and  possessing  singularly  pleasing  manners, 
abounding  information  and  genial  wit,  embellished  and 
enjoyed  society.'  William  Taylor,  the  biographer  of  Say- 
ers,  was  a  few  years  his  junior.  He  was  versed  in  Goethe, 
in  Schiller,  in  the  great  Kotzebue — Shakspeare's  immediate 
successor,  in  Klopstock,  in  the  fantastic  ballad,  in  the  new 
criticism,  and  all  this  at  a  time  when  German  characters 
were  as  undecipherable  to  most  Englishmen  as  Assyrian 
arrow-heads.  The  whirligig  of  time  brought  an  odd  re- 
venge when  Carlyle,  thirty  years  later,  hailed  in  Taylor  the 
first  example  of  *'  the  natural-born  English  Philistine."  In 
Norwich  he  was  known  as  a  model  of  filial  virtue,  a  rising 
light  of  that  illuminated  city,  a  man  whose  extraordinary 
range  pointed  him  out  as  the  fit  and  proper  person  to  be 
interrogated  by  any  blue-stocking  lady  upon  topics  as  re- 
mote as  the  domestic  arrangements  of  the  Chinese  Emper- 
or, Chim-Cham-Chow.  William  Taylor  had  a  command 
of  new  and  mysterious  w^ords :  he  shone  in  paradox,  and 
would  make  ladies  aghast  by  "  defences  of  suicide,  avowals 
that  snufi  alone  had  rescued  him  from  it ;  information,  given 
as  certain,  that '  God  save  the  King '  was  sung  by  Jeremiah 
in  the  Temple  of  Solomon ;"'  with  other  blasphemies  bor- 
rowed from  the  German,  and  too  startling  even  for  ration- 
alistic Norwich.  Dr.  Enfield,  from  whose  Speaker  our 
fathers  learnt  to  recite  "  My  name  is  Norval,"  was  no 
longer  living ;  he  had  just  departed  in  the  odour  of  dilet- 
tantism. But  solemn  Dr.  Alderson  was  here,  and  was  now 
engaged  in  giving  away  his  daughter  Amelia  to  a  divorced 

*  See  Southey's  article  on  "Dr.  Sayers's  Works,"  Quarterly  Re- 
view, January,  1827. 

**  Harriet  Martineau  :  Autobiography,  i.  p.  300. 


III.]  "WANDERINGS,  l^GS— 1803.  69 

bridegroom,  the  painter  Opie.  Just  now  Elizabeth  Gurney 
was  listening  in  the  Friends'  Meeting-Housc  to  that  dis- 
course which  transformed  her  from  a  gay  haunter  of  coun- 
try ball-rooms  to  the  sister  and  servant  of  Newgate  pris- 
oners. The  Martineaus  also  were  of  Norwich,  and  upon 
subsequent  visits  the  author  of  Thalaba  and  Kehama  was 
scrutinized  by  the  keen  eyes  of  a  little  girl — not  born  at 
the  date  of  his  first  visit — who  smiled  somewhat  too  early 
and  somewhat  too  maliciously  at  the  airs  and  affectations 
of  her  native  town,  and  whose  pleasure  in  pricking  a  wind- 
bag, literary,  political,  or  religious,  was  only  over-exquisite. 
But  Harriet  Martineau,  who  honoured  courage,  purity, 
faithfulness,  and  strength  wherever  they  were  found,  rev- 
erenced the  Tory  Churchman,  Robert  Southey.' 

Soon  after  his  return  from  Norwich,  a  small  house  was 
taken  at  Westbury  (1797),  a  village  two  miles  distant  from 
Bristol.  During  twelve  happy  months  this  continued  to 
be  Southey's  home.  "  I  never  before  or  since,"  he  says  in 
one  of  the  prefaces  to  his  collected  poems,  "  produced  so 
much  poetry  in  the  same  space  of  time."  William  Taylor, 
by  talks  about  Voss  and  the  German  idylls,  had  set  South- 
ey  thinking  of  a  series  of  English  Eclogues;  Taylor  also 
expressed  his  wonder  that  some  one  of  our  poets  had  not 
undertaken  what  the  French  and  Germans  so  long  support- 
ed— an  Almanack  of  the  Muses,  or  Annual  Anthology  of 
minor  poems  by  various  writers.  The  suggestion  was  well 
received  by  Southey,  who  became  editor  of  such  annual 
volumes  for  the  years  1799  and  1800,  At  this  period 
were  produced  many  of  the  ballads  and  short  pieces  which 
are  perhaps  more  generally  known  than  any  other  of 
Southey's  writings.     He  had  served  his  apprenticeship  to 

'  See  her  "  History  of  the  Peace,"  B.  vi,  chap.  xvi. 


60  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

the  craft  and  mystery  of  such  verse-making  in  the  Morn- 
ing Post,  earning  thereby  a  guinea  a  week,  but  it  was  not 
until  Bishop  Bruno  was  written  at  Westbury  that  he  had 
the  luck  to  hit  off  the  right  tone,  as  he  conceived  it,  of  the 
modern  ballad.  The  popularity  of  his  Mary  the  Maid  of 
the  InUy  which  unhappy  children  got  by  heart,  and  which 
some  one  even  dramatized,  was  an  affliction  to  its  author, 
for  he  would  rather  have  been  remembered  as  a  ballad 
writer  in  connexion  with  Rudiger  and  Lord  William. 
What  he  has  written  in  this  kind  certainly  does  not  move 
the  heart  as  with  a  trumpet ;  it  does  not  bring  with  it  the 
dim  burden  of  sorrow  which  is  laid  upon  the  spirit  by 
songs  like  those  of  Yarrow  crooning  of  "  old,  unhappy,  far- 
off  things."  But  to  tell  a  tale  of  fantasy  briefly,  clearly, 
brightly,  and  at  the  same  time  with  a  certain  heightening 
of  imaginative  touches,  is  no  common  achievement.  The 
spectre  of  the  murdered  boy  in  Lord  William  shone  upon 
by  a  sudden  moonbeam,  and  surrounded  by  the  welter  of 
waves,  is  more  than  a  picturesque  apparition ;  readers  of 
goodwill  may  find  him  a  very  genuine  little  ghost,  a  stem 
and  sad  justicer.  What  has  been  named  "the  lyrical  cry" 
is  hard  to  find  in  any  of  Southey's  shorter  poems.  In 
Roderick  and  elsewhere  he  takes  delight  in  representing 
great  moments  of  life  when  fates  are  decided ;  but  such 
moments  are  usually  represented  as  eminences  on  which 
will  and  passion  wrestle  in  a  mortal  embrace,  and  if  the 
cry  of  passion  be  heard,  it  is  often  a  half-stifled  death  cry. 
The  best  of  Southey's  shorter  poems,  expressing  personal 
feelings,  are  those  which  sum  up  the  virtue  spread  over 
seasons  of  life  and  long  habitual  moods.  Sometimes  he  is 
simply  sportive,  as  a  serious  man  released  from  thought  and 
toil  may  be,  and  at  such  times  the  sportiveness,  while  gen- 
uine as  a  schoolboy's,  is,  like  a  schoolboy's,  the  reverse  of 


in.]  WANDERINGS,  1795—1803.  61 

keen -edged;  on  other  occasions  he  expresses  simply  a 
strong  man's  endurance  of  sorrow ;  but  more  often  an  un- 
dertone of  gravity  appears  through  his  glee,  and  in  his  sor- 
row there  is  something  of  solemn  joy. 

All  this  year  (1799)  Madoc  was  steadily  advancing,  and 
The  Destruction  of  the  Dovi  Daniel  had  been  already 
sketched  in  outline.  Southey  was  fortunate  in  finding  an 
admirable  listener.  The  Pneumatic  Institution,  established 
in  Bristol  by  Dr.  Beddoes,  was  now  under  the  care  of  a 
youth  lately  an  apothecary's  apprentice  at  Penzance,  a 
poet,  but  still  more  a  philosopher, "  a  miraculous  young 
man."  **  He  is  not  yet  twenty-one,  nor  has  he  applied  to 
chemistry  more  than  eighteen  months,  but  he  has  advanced 
with  such  seven-leagued  strides  as  to  overtake  everybody. 
His  name  is  Davy  " — Humphry  Davy — "  the  young  chem- 
ist, the  young  everything,  the  man  least  ostentatious,  of 
first  talent  that  I  have  ever  known."  Southey  would  walk 
across  from  Westbury,  an  easy  walk  over  beautiful  ground, 
to  breathe  Davy's  wonder-working  gas,  "  which  excites  all 
possible  mental  and  muscular  energy,  and  induces  almost  a 
delirium  of  pleasurable  sensations  without  any  subsequent 
dejection."  Pleased  to  find  scientific  proof  that  he  pos- 
sessed a  poet's  fine  susceptibility,  he  records  that  the  ni- 
trous oxide  wrought  upon  him  more  readily  than  upon  any 
other  of  its  votaries.  "Oh,  Tom!"  he  exclaims,  gasping 
and  ebullient — "  oh,  Tom !  such  a  gas  has  Davy  discovered, 
the  gaseous  oxyde !  .  .  .  Davy  has  actually  invented  a  new 
pleasure  for  which  language  has  no  name.  I  am  going  for 
more  this  evening ;  it  makes  one  strong,  and  so  happy !  so 
gloriously  happy  !  .  .  .  Oh,  excellent  air-bag !"  If  Southey 
drew  inspiration  from  Davy's  air-bag,  could  Davy  do  less 
than  lend  his  ear  to  Southey's  epic?  They  would  stroll 
back  to  Martin  Hall — so  christened  because  the  birds  who 


62  SOtJTHEY.  [chap. 

love  delicate  air  built  under  its  eaves  their  "pendant  beds" 
— and  in  the  large  sitting-room,  its  recesses  stored  with 
books,  or  seated  near  the  currant-bushes  in  the  garden, 
the  tenant  of  Martin  Hall  would  read  aloud  of  Urien  and 
Madoc  and  Cadwallon.  When  Davy  had  said  good-bye, 
Southey  would  sit  long  in  the  window  open  to  the  west, 
poring  on  the  fading  glories  of  sunset,  while  about  him 
the  dew  was  cool,  and  the  swallows'  tiny  shrieks  of  glee 
grew  less  frequent,  until  all  was  hushed  and  another  day 
was  done.  And  sometimes  he  would  muse  how  all  things 
that  he  needed  for  utter  happiness  were  here — all  things 
— and  then  would  rise  an  ardent  desire — except  a  child. 

Martin  Hall  was  unhappily  held  on  no  long  lease ;  its 
owner  now  required  possession,  and  the  Southeys,  with 
their  household  gods,  had  reluctantly  to  bid  it  farewell. 
Another  trouble,  and  a  more  formidable  one,  at  the  same 
time  threatened.  What  with  Annual  Anthologies,  Madoc 
in  Wales,  Madoc  in  Aztlan,  the  design  for  a  great  poem 
on  the  Deluge,  for  a  Greek  drama,  for  a  Portuguese  trag- 
edy, for  a  martyrdom  play  of  the  reign  of  Queen  Mary — 
what  with  reading  Spanish,  learning  Dutch,  translating  and 
reviewing  for  the  booksellers — Southey  had  been  too  close- 
ly at  work.  His  heart  began  to  take  fits  of  sudden  and 
violent  pulsation  ;  his  sleep,  ordinarily  as  sound  as  a  child's, 
became  broken  and  unrefreshing.  Unless  the  disease  were 
thrown  ofi  by  regular  exercise,  Beddoes  assured  him,  it 
would  fasten  upon  him,  and  could  not  be  overcome.  Two 
years  previously  they  had  spent  a  summer  at  Burton,  in 
Hampshire ;  why  should  they  not  go  there  again  ?  In 
June,  1*799,  unaccompanied  by  his  wife,  whose  health  seem- 
ed also  to  be  impaired,  Southey  went  to  seek  a  house. 
Two  cottages,  convertible  into  one,  with  a  garden,  a  fish- 
pond, and  a  pigeon-house,  promised  a  term  of  quiet  and 


III.]  WANDERINGS,  1795—1803.  03 

comfort  in  "  Southey  Palace  that  is  to  be."  Possession 
was  not  to  be  had  until  Michaelmas,  and  part  of  the  in- 
tervening time  was  very  en  joy  ably  spent  in  roaming  among 
the  vales  and  woods,  the  coombes  and  cliffs  of  Devon.  It 
was  in  some  measure  a  renewal  of  the  open-air  delight 
which  had  been  his  at  the  Arrabida  and  Cintra.  "  I  have 
seen  the  Valley  of  Stones,"  he  writes :  "  Imagine  a  narrow 
vale  between  two  ridges  of  hills  somewhat  steep ;  the 
southern  hill  turfed;  the  vale  which  runs  from  east  to 
west  covered  with  huge  stones  and  fragments  of  stones 
among  the  fern  that  fills  it ;  the  northern  ridge  completely 
bare,  excoriated  of  all  turf  and  all  soil,  the  very  bones  and 
skeleton  of  the  earth  ;  rock  reclining  upon  rock,  stone 
piled  upon  stone,  a  huge  and  terrific  mass.  A  palace  of 
the  Preadamite  kings,  a  city  of  the  Anakim,  must  have 
appeared  so  shapeless  and  yet  so  like  the  ruins  of  what 
had  been  shaped,  after  the  waters  of  the  flood  subsided. 
I  ascended  with  some  toil  the  highest  point ;  two  large 
stones  inclining  on  each  other  formed  a  rude  portal  on  the 
summit :  here  I  sat  down ;  a  little  level  platform  about 
two  yards  long  lay  before  me,  and  then  the  eye  fell  im- 
mediately upon  the  sea,  far,  very  far  below.  I  never  felt 
the  sublimity  of  solitude  before." 

But  Southey  could  not  rest.  "  I  had  rather  leave  off 
eating  than  poetizing,"  he  had  said ;  and  now  the  words 
seemed  coming  true,  for  he  still  poetized,  and  had  almost 
ceased  to  eat.  "  Yesterday  I  finished  Madoc,  thank  God  ! 
and  thoroughly  to  my  own  satisfaction ;  but  I  have  re- 
solved on  one  great,  laborious,  and  radical  alteration.  It 
was  my  design  to  identify  Madoc  with  Mango  Capac,  the 
legislator  of  Peru :  in  this  I  have  totally  failed ;  therefore 
Mango  Capac  is  to  be  the  hero  of  another  poem."  There 
is  something  charming  in  the  logic  of  Southey's  "there- 


64  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

fore ;"  so  excellent  an  epic  hero  must  not  go  to  waste ; 
but  when,  on  the  following  morning,  he  rose  early,  it  was 
to  put  on  paper  the  first  hundred  lines,  not  of  Mango  Ca- 
pac,  but  of  the  Dom  Daniel  poem  which  we  know  as  Thala- 
ha.  A  Mohammed^  to  be  written  in  hexameters,  was  also  on 
the  stocks ;  and  Coleridge  had  promised  the  half  of  this. 
Southey,  who  remembered  a  certain  quarto  volume  on 
Pantisocracy  and  other  great  unwritten  works,  including 
the  last — a  Life  of  Lessing,  by  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge — 
knew  the  worth  of  his  collaborateur's  promises.  However, 
it  matters  little ;  "  the  only  inconvenience  that  his  derelic- 
tion can  occasion  will  be  that  I  shall  write  the  poem  in 
fragments,  and  have  to  seam  them  together  at  last."  "  My 
Mohammed  will  be  what  I  believe  the  Arabian  was  in  the 
beginning  of  his  career — sincere  in  enthusiasm ;  and  it 
would  puzzle  a  casuist  to  distinguish  between  the  belief 
of  inspiration  and  actual  enthusiasm."  A  short  fragment 
of  the  Mohammed  was  actually  written  by  Coleridge,  and 
a  short  fragment  by  Southey,  which,  dating  from  1799, 
have  an  interest  in  connexion  with  the  liistory  of  the  Eng- 
lish hexameter.  Last  among  these  many  projects,  Southey 
has  made  up  his  mind  to  undertake  one  great  historical 
work — the  History  of  Portugal,  This  was  no  dream-proj- 
ect; Mango  Capac  never  descended  from  his  father  the 
Sun  to  appear  in  Southey's  poem ;  Mohammed  never 
emerged  from  the  cavern  where  the  spider  had  spread  his 
net ;  but  the  work  which  was  meant  to  rival  Gibbon's  great 
history  was  in  part  achieved.  It  is  a  fact  more  pathetic 
than  many  others  which  make  appeal  for  tears,  that  this 
most  ambitious  and  most  cherished  design  of  Southey's 
life,  conceived  at  the  age  of  twenty-six,  and  kept  constant- 
ly in  view  through  all  his  days  of  toil,  was  not  yet  half 
wrought  out  when,  forty  years   later,  the  pen  dropped 


III.]  WANDERINGS,  1795—1803.  65 

from  his  hand,  and  the  worn-out  brain  could  think  no 
more. 

The  deal  shavings  had  hardly  been  cleared  out  of  the 
twin  cottages  at  Burton,  when  Southey  was  prostrated  by 
a  nervous  fever ;  on  recovering,  he  moved  to  Bristol,  still 
wealc,  with  strange  pains  about  the  heart,  and  sudden 
seizures  of  the  head.  An  entire  change  of  scene  was  ob- 
viously desirable.  The  sound  of  the  brook  that  ran  beside 
his  uncle's  door  at  Cintra,  the  scent  of  the  lemon-groves, 
the  grandeur  of  the  Arrabida,  haunted  his  memory  ;  there 
were  books  and  manuscripts  to  be  found  in  Portugal  which 
were  essential  in  the  preparation  of  his  great  history  of 
that  country.  Mr.  Hill  invited  him  ;  his  good  friend  Elras- 
ley,  an  old  schoolfellow,  offered  him  a  hundred  pounds. 
From  every  point  of  view  it  seemed  right  and  prudent  to 
go.  Ailing  and  unsettled  as  he  was,  he  yet  found  strength 
and  time  to  put  his  hand  to  a  good  work  before  leaving 
Bristol.  Chatterton  always  interested  Southey  deeply ; 
they  had  this  much  at  least  in  common,  that  both  had  of- 
ten listened  to  the  chimes  of  St.  Mary  Redcliffe,  that  both 
were  lovers  of  antiquity,  both  were  rich  in  store  of  verse, 
and  lacked  all  other  riches.  Chatterton's  sister,  Mrs.  New- 
ton, and  her  child  were  needy  and  neglected.  It  occurred 
to  Southey  and  Cottle  that  an  edition  of  her  brother's 
poems  might  be  published  for  her  benefit.  Subscribers 
came  in  slowly,  and  the  plan  underwent  some  alterations ; 
but  in  the  end  the  charitable  thought  bore  fruit,  and  the 
sister  and  niece  of  the  great  unhappy  boy  were  lifted  into 
security  and  comfort.  To  have  done  something  to  appease 
the  moody  and  indignant  spirit  of  a  dead  poet,  was  well ; 
to  have  rescued  from  want  a  poor  woman  and  her  daughter, 
was  perhaps  even  better. 

Early  in  April,  1800,  Southey  was  once  more  on  his  way 
4 


(56  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

from  Bristol,  by  Falmouth,  to  the  Continent,  accompanied 
by  his  wife,  now  about  to  be  welcomed  to  Portugal  by  the 
fatherly  uncle  whose  prudence  she  had  once  alarmed.  The 
wind  was  adverse,  and  while  the  travellers  were  detained 
Southey  strolled  along  the  beach,  caught  soldier-crabs,  and 
observed  those  sea-anemones  which  blossom  anew  in  the 
verse  of  Thalaba.  For  reading  on  the  voyage,  he  had 
brought  Burns,  Coleridge's  poems,  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  and 
a  poem,  with  "  miraculous  beauties,"  called  Gebir,  "  written 
by  God  knows  who."  But  when  the  ship  lost  sight  of  Eng- 
land, Southey,  with  swimming  head,  had  little  spirit  left  for 
wrestling  with  the  intractable  thews  of  Landor's  early  verse; 
he  could  just  grunt  out  some  crooked  pun  or  quaint  phrase 
in  answer  to  inquiries  as  to  how  he  did.  Suddenly,  on 
the  fourth  morning,  came  the  announcement  that  a  French 
cutter  was  bearing  down  upon  them.  Southey  leaped  to 
his  feet,  hurriedly  removed  his  wife  to  a  place  of  safety, 
and,  musket  in  hand,  took  his  post  upon  the  quarter-deck. 
The  smoke  from  the  enemy's  matches  could  be  seen.  She 
was  hailed,  answered  in  broken  English,  and  passed  on.  A 
moment  more,  and  the  suspense  was  over ;  she  was  English, 
manned  from  Guernsey.  "  You  will  easily  imagine,"  says 
Southey,  "  that  my  sensations  at  the  ending  of  the  business 
were  very  definable — one  honest,  simple  joy  that  I  was  in 
a  whole  skin  !"  Two  mornings  more,  and  the  sun  rose  be- 
hind the  Berlings;  the  heights  of  Cintra  became  visible, 
and  nearer,  the  silver  dust  of  the  breakers,  with  sea-gulls 
sporting  over  them ;  a  pilot's  boat,  with  puffed  and  flap- 
ping sail,  ran  out ;  they  passed  thankfully  our  Lady  of  the 
Guide,  and  soon  dropped  anchor  in  the  Tagus.  An  ab- 
sence of  four  years  had  freshened  every  object  to  Southey's 
sense  of  seeing,  and  now  he  had  the  joy  of  viewing  all  fa- 
miliar things  as  strange  through  so  dear  a  companion's  eyes. 


m.]  WANDERINGS,  1795—1803.  67 

Mr.  Hill  was  presently  on  board  with  kindly  greeting ; 
he  had  hired  a  tiny  house  for  them,  perched  well  above  the 
river,  its  little  rooms  cool  with  many  doors  and  windows. 
Manuel  the  barber,  brisk  as  Figaro,  would  be  their  factotum, 
and  Mrs.  Southey  could  also  see  a  new  maid — Maria  Rosa. 
Maria  by-and-by  came  to  be  looked  at,  in  powder,  straw- 
coloured  gloves,  fan,  pink -ribands,  muslin  petticoat,  green 
satin  sleeves ;  she  was  "  not  one  of  the  folk  who  sleep  on 
straw  mattresses ;"  withal  she  was  young  and  clean.  Mrs. 
Southey,  who  had  liked  little  the  prospect  of  being  thrown 
abroad  upon  the  world,  was  beginning  to  be  reconciled  to 
Portugal ;  roses  and  oranges  and  green  peas  in  early  May 
were  pleasant  things.  Then  the  streets  were  an  unending 
spectacle;  now  a  negro  going  by  with  Christ  in  a  glass 
case,  to  be  kissed  for  a  petty  alms ;  now  some  picturesque, 
venerable  beggar;  now  the  little  Emperor  of  the  Holy 
Ghost,  strutting  it  from  Easter  till  Whitsuntide,  a  six-year- 
old  mannikin  with  silk  stockings,  buckles,  cocked  hat,  and 
sword,  his  gentlemen  ushers  attending,  and  his  servants  re- 
ceiving donations  on  silver  salvers.  News  of  an  assassina- 
tion, from  time  to  time,  did  not  much  disturb  the  tranquil 
tenor  of  ordinary  life.  There  were  old  gardens  to  loiter  in 
along  vine-trellised  walks,  or  in  sunshine  where  the  grey 
lizards  glanced  and  gleamed.  And  eastward  from  the  city 
were  lovely  by-lanes  amid  blossoming  olive-trees  or  mar- 
ket-gardens, veined  by  tiny  aqueducts  and  musical  with  the 
creak  of  water-wheels,  which  told  of  cool  refreshment. 
There  was  also  the  vast  public  aqueduct  to  visit;  Edith 
Southey,  holding  her  husband's  hand,  looked  down,  hardly 
discovering  the  diminished  figures  below  of  women  wash- 
ing in  the  brook  of  Alcantara.  If  the  sultry  noon  in  Lis- 
bon was  hard  to  endure,  evening  made  amends ;  then 
strong  sea-winds  swept  the  narrowest  alley,  and  rolled  their 


68  SOUTHEY.  [chap 

current  down  every  avenue.  And  later,  it  was  pure  con- 
tent to  look  down  upon  the  moonlighted  river,  with  Al- 
mada  stretching  its  black  isthmus  into  the  waters  that 
shone  like  midnight  snow. 

Before  moving  to  Cintra,  they  wished  to  witness  the 
procession  of  the  Body  of  God — Southey  likes  the  Eng- 
lish words  as  exposing  "the  naked  nonsense  of  the  blas- 
phemy " — those  of  St.  Anthony,  and  the  Heart  of  Jesus, 
and  the  first  bull-fight.  Everything  had  grown  into  one 
insuflEerable  glare ;  the  very  dust  was  bleached ;  the  light 
was  like  the  quivering  of  a  furnace  fire.  Every  man  and 
beast  was  asleep ;  the  stone-cutter  slept  with  his  head  upon 
the  stone ;  the  dog  slept  under  the  very  cart-wheels ;  the 
bells  alone  slept  not,  nor  ceased  from  their  importunate 
clamour.  At  length — it  was  near  mid-June — a  marvellous 
cleaning  of  streets  took  place,  the  houses  were  hung  with 
crimson  damask,  soldiers  came  and  lined  the  ways,  win- 
dows and  balconies  filled  with  impatient  watchers — not  a 
jewel  in  Lisbon  but  was  on  show.  With  blare  of  music 
the  procession  began ;  first,  the  banners  of  the  city  and 
its  trades,  the  clumsy  bearers  crab-sidling  along ;  an  armed 
champion  carrying  a  flag ;  wooden  St.  George  held  pain- 
fully on  horseback ;  led  horses,  their  saddles  covered  with 
rich  escutcheons ;  all  the  brotherhoods,  an  immense  train 
of  men  in  red  or  grey  cloaks ;  the  knights  of  the  orders 
superbly  dressed ;  the  whole  patriarchal  church  in  glorious 
robes ;  and  then,  amid  a  shower  of  rose-leaves  fluttering 
from  the  windows,  the  Fix,  and  after  the  Fix,  the  Frince. 
On  a  broiling  Sunday,  the  amusement  being  cool  and  de- 
vout, was  celebrated  the  bull-feast.  The  first  wound  sick- 
ened Edith  ;  Southey  himself,  not  without  an  effort,  looked 
on  and  saw  "the  death-sweat  darkening  the  dun  hide" — a 
circumstance  borne  in  mind  for  his  Thalaba.     "  I  am  not 


m.]  WANDERINGS,  1795—1803.  69 

quite  sure,"  he  writes,  "  that  my  curiosity  in  once  going 
was  perfectly  justifiable,  but  the  pain  inflicted  by  the  sight 
was  expiation  enough." 

After  this  it  was  high  time  to  take  refuge  from  the  sun 
among  the  lemon -groves  at  Cintra.  Here,  if  ever  in  his 
life,  Southey  for  a  brief  season  believed  that  the  grass- 
hopper is  wiser  than  the  ant ;  a  true  Portuguese  indolence 
overpowered  him.  "  I  have  spent  my  mornings  half  naked 
in  a  wet  room  dozing  upon  the  bed,  my  right  hand  not 
daring  to  touch  my  left."  Such  glorious  indolence  could 
only  be  a  brief  possession  with  Southey,  More  often  he 
would  wander  by  the  streams  to  those  spots  where  pur- 
ple crocuses  carpeted  the  ground,  and  there  rest  and  read. 
Sometimes  seated  sideways  on  one  of  the  surefooted  bur- 
ros, with  a  boy  to  beat  and  guide  the  brute,  he  would  jog 
lazily  on,  while  Edith,  now  skilled  in  "ass-womanship," 
would  jog  along  on  a  brother  donkey.  Once  and  again  a 
fog — not  unwelcome — came  rolling  in  from  the  ocean,  one 
huge  mass  of  mist,  marching  through  the  valley  like  a 
victorious  army,  approaching,  blotting  the  brightness,  but 
leaving  all  dank  and  fresh.  And  always  the  evenings  were 
delightful,  when  fireflies  sparkled  under  the  trees,  or  in 
July  and  August,  as  their  light  went  out,  when  the  grillo 
began  his  song.  "  I  eat  oranges,  figs,  and  delicious  pears 
— drink  Colares  wine,  a  sort  of  half-way  excellence  between 
port  and  claret — read  all  I  can  lay  my  hands  on — dream 
of  poem  after  poem,  and  play  after  play — take  a  siesta  of 
two  hours,  and  am  as  happy  as  if  life  were  but  one  ever- 
lasting to-day,  and  that  to-morrow  was  not  to  be  provided 
for." 

But  Southey's  second  visit  to  Portugal  was,  on  the 
whole,  no  season  of  repose.  A  week  in  the  southern  cli- 
mate seemed  to  have  restored  him  to  health,  and  he  assail- 


70  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

ed  folio  after  folio  in  his  uncle's  library,  rising  each  morn- 
ing at  five,  "  to  lay  in  bricks  for  the  great  Pyramid  of  my 
history."  The  chronicles,  the  laws,  the  poetry  of  Portu- 
gal, were  among  these  bricks.  Nor  did  he  slacken  in  his 
ardour  as  a  writer  of  verse.  Six  books  of  Thalaba  were  in 
his  trunk  in  manuscript  when  he  sailed  from  Falmouth ; 
the  remaining  six  were  of  a  southern  birth.  "  I  am  busy," 
he  says,  "  in  correcting  Thalaba  for  the  press.  ...  It  is  a 
good  job  done,  and  so  I  have  thought  of  another,  and  an- 
other, and  another."  As  with  Joan  of  Arc,  so  with  this 
maturer  poem  the  correction  was  a  rehandling  which  dou- 
bled the  writer's  work.  To  draw  the  pen  across  six  hun- 
dred lines  did  not  cost  him  a  pang.  At  length  the  manu- 
script was  despatched  to  his  friend  Rickman,  with  instruc- 
tions to  make  as  good  a  bargain  as  he  could  for  the  first 
thousand  copies.  By  Joan  and  the  miscellaneous  Poems 
of  1797,  Southey  had  gained  not  far  from  a  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds ;  he  might  fairly  expect  a  hundred  guineas 
for  Thalaba.  It  would  buy  the  furniture  of  his  long-ex- 
pected house.  But  he  was  concerned  about  the  prospects 
of  Harry,  his  younger  brother ;  and  now  William  Taylor 
wrote  that  some  provincial  surgeon  of  eminence  would 
board  and  instruct  the  lad  during  four  or  five  years 
for  precisely  a  hundred  guineas.  "A  hundred  guineas  !" 
Southey  exclaims ;  "  well,  but,  thank  God,  there  is  Thalaba 
ready,  for  which  I  ask  this  sum."  ''''Thalaba  finished,  all 
my  poetry,"  he  writes,  "  instead  of  being  wasted  in  rivu- 
lets and  ditches,  shall  flow  into  the  great  Madoc  Mississip- 
pi river."  One  epic  poem,  however,  he  finds  too  little  to 
content  him ;  already  The  Curse  of  Kehama  is  in  his  head, 
and  another  of  the  mythological  series  which  never  saw 
the  light.  "  I  have  some  distant  view  of  manufacturing  a 
Hindoo  romance,  wild  as  Thalaba;  and  a  nearer  one  of  a 


in.]  WANDERLVGS,  1795—1803.  71 

Persian  story,  of  which  I  see  the  germ  of  vitality.  I  take 
the  system  of  the  Zendavesta  for  my  mythology,  and  in- 
troduce the  powers  of  darkness  persecuting  a  Persian,  one 
of  the  hundred  and  fifty  sons  of  the  great  king  ;  an  Athe- 
nian captive  is  a  prominent  character,  and  the  whole  war- 
fare of  the  evil  power  ends  in  exalting  a  Persian  prince 
into  a  citizen  of  Athens."  From  which  catastrophe  we 
may  infer  that  Southey  had  still  something  republican 
about  his  heart. 

Before  quitting  Portugal,  the  Southeys,  with  their  friend 
Waterhouse  and  a  party  of  ladies,  travelled  northwards,  en- 
countering very  gallantly  the  trials  of  the  way ;  Mafra,  its 
convent  and  library,  had  been  already  visited  by  Southey. 
"  Do  you  love  reading  ?"  asked  the  friar  who  accompanied 
them,  overhearing  some  remark  about  the  books.  "  Yes." 
"And  I,"  said  the  honest  Franciscan,  "love  eating  and 
drinking."  At  Coimbra — that  central  point  from  which 
radiates  the  history  and  literature  of  Portugal  —  Southey 
would  have  agreed  feelingly  with  the  good  brother  of  the 
Mafra  convent ;  he  had  looked  forward  to  precious  mo- 
ments of  emotion  in  that  venerable  city ;  but  air  and  ex- 
ercise had  given  him  a  cruel  appetite ;  if  truth  must  be 
told,  the  ducks  of  the  monastic  poultry -yard  were  more 
to  him  than  the  precious  finger  of  St.  Anthony.  "  I  did 
long,"  he  confesses,  "  to  buy,  beg,  or  steal  a  dinner."  The 
dinner  must  somehow  have  been  secured  before  he  could 
approach  in  a  worthy  spirit  that  most  affecting  mon- 
ument at  Coimbra  —  the  Fountain  of  Tears.  "  It  is  the 
spot  where  Inez  de  Castro  was  accustomed  to  meet  her 
husband  Pedro,  and  weep  for  him  in  his  absence.  Cer- 
tainly her  dwelling-house  was  in  the  adjoining  garden; 
and  from  there  she  was  dragged,  to  be  murdered  at  the 
feet  of  the  king,  her  father-in-law. ...  I,  who  have  long 


72  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

planned  a  tragedy  upon  the  subject,  stood  upon  my  own 
scene."  While  Southey  and  bis  companions  gazed  at 
the  fountains  and  their  shadowing  cedar-trees,  the  gowns- 
men gathered  round ;  the  visitors  were  travel-stained  and 
bronzed  by  the  sun ;  perhaps  the  witty  youths  cheered 
for  the  lady  with  the  squaw  tint ;  whatever  offence  may 
have  been  given,  the  ladies'  protectors  found  them  "  impu- 
dent blackguards,"  and  with  diflSculty  suppressed  pugilistic 
risings. 

After  an  excursion  southwards  to  Algarve,  Southey 
made  ready  for  his  return  to  England  (1801).  His  wife 
desired  it,  and  he  had  attained  the  main  objects  of  his 
sojourn  abroad.  His  health  had  never  been  more  perfect ; 
he  had  read  widely ;  he  had  gathered  large  material  for 
his  History ;  he  knew  where  to  put  his  hand  on  this  or 
that  which  might  prove  needful,  whenever  he  should  re» 
turn  to  complete  his  work  among  the  libraries  of  Portugal. 
On  arriving  at  Bristol,  a  letter  from  Coleridge  met  him. 
It  was  dated  from  Greta  Hall,  Keswick ;  and  after  remind- 
ing Southey  that  Bristol  had  recently  lost  the  miraculous 
young  man,  Davy,  and  adding  that  he,  Samuel  Taylor  Cole- 
ridge, had  experiences,  sufferings,  hopes,  projects  to  im- 
part, which  would  beguile  much  time,  "  were  you  on  a 
desert  island  and  I  your  Friday,''''  it  went  on  to  present 
the  attractions  of  Keswick,  and  in  particular  of  Greta  Hall, 
in  a  way  which  could  not  be  resisted.  Taking  all  in  all — 
the  beauty  of  the  prospect,  the  roominess  of  the  house, 
the  lowness  of  the  rent,  the  unparalleled  merits  of  the 
landlord,  the  neighbourhood  of  noble  libraries — it  united 
advantages  not  to  be  found  together  elsewhere.  "  In 
short" — the  appeal  wound  up — "for  situation  and  con- 
venience —  and  when  I  mention  the  name  of  Words- 
worth, for  society  of  men  of  intellect — I  know  no  place 


ni.]  WANDERINGS,  1795— 180a  IS 

in  which  you  and  Edith  would  find  yourselves  so  well 
suited." 

Meanwhile  Drummond,  an  M.P.  and  a  translator  of  Per- 
sins,  who  was  going  as  ambassador,  first  to  Palermo  and 
then  to  Constantinople,  was  on  the  look-out  for  a  secre- 
tary. The  post  would  be  obtained  for  Southey  by  his 
friend  Wynn,  if  possible  ;  this  might  lead  to  a  consulship  ; 
why  not  to  the  consulship  at  Lisbon,  with  1000^.  a  year? 
Such  possibilities,  however,  could  not  prevent  him  from 
speedily  visiting  Coleridge  and  Keswick.  "  Time  and  ab- 
sence make  strange  work  with  our  affections,"  so  writes 
Southey ;  "  but  mine  are  ever  returning  to  rest  upon  you. 
I  have  other  and  dear  friends,  but  none  with  whom  the 
whole  of  my  being  is  intimate.  .  .  .  Oh !  I  have  yet  such 
dreams.  Is  it  quite  clear  that  you  and  I  were  not  meant 
for  some  better  star,  and  dropped  by  mistake  into  this 
world  of  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence  ?"  So  for  the  first 
time  Southey  set  foot  in  Keswick,  and  looked  upon  the 
lake  and  the  hills  which  were  to  become  a  portion  of  his 
being,  and  which  have  taken  him  so  closely,  so  tenderly,  to 
themselves.  His  first  feeling  was  one  not  precisely  of  dis- 
appointment, but  certainly  of  remoteness  from  this  north- 
em  landscape;  he  had  not  yet  come  out  from  the  glow 
and  the  noble  abandon  of  the  South.  "  These  lakes,"  he 
says,  "  are  like  rivers ;  but  oh  for  the  Mondego  and  the 
Tagus !  And  these  mountains,  beautifully  indeed  are  they 
shaped  and  grouped ;  but  oh  for  the  grand  Monchique ! 
and  for  Cintra,  my  paradise  1" 

Time  alone  was  needed  to  calm  and  temper  his  sense  of 
seeing ;  for  when,  leaving  Mrs.  Southey  with  her  sister  and 
Coleridge,  he  visited  his  friend  Wynn  at  Llangedvvin,  and 
breathed  the  mountain  air  of  his  own  Prince  Madoc,  all 
the  loveliness  of  Welsh  streams  and  rivers  sank  into  his 
6 


74  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

soul.  "The  Dee  is  broad  and  shallow,  and  its  dark  wa- 
ters shiver  into  white  and  silver  and  hues  of  amber  brown. 
No  mud  upon  the  shore — no  bushes — no  marsh  plants — 
anywhere  a  child  might  stand  dry-footed  and  dip  his  hand 
into  the  water."  And  again  a  contrasted  picture :  "  The 
mountain-side  was  stony,  and  a  few  trees  grew  among  its 
stones ;  the  other  side  was  more  wooded,  and  had  grass  on 
the  top,  and  a  huge  waterfall  thundered  into  the  bottom, 
and  thundered  down  the  bottom.  When  it  had  nearly 
passed  these  rocky  straits,  it  met  another  stream.  Tlie 
width  of  water  then  became  considerable,  and  twice  it 
formed  a  large  black  pool,  to  the  eye  absolutely  stagnant, 
the  froth  of  the  waters  that  entered  there  sleeping  upon 
the  surface ;  it  had  the  deadness  of  enchantment ;  yet  was 
not  the  pool  wider  than  the  river  above  it  and  below  it, 
where  it  foamed  over  and  fell."  Such  free  delight  as 
Southey  had  among  the  hills  of  Wales  came  quickly  to  an 
end.  A  letter  was  received  offering  him  the  position  of 
private  secretary  to  Mr.  Corry,  Chancellor  of  the  Excheq- 
uer for  Ireland,  with  a  salary  of  four  hundred  pounds  p, 
year.  Rickman  was  in  Dublin,  and  this  was  Rickman's 
doing.  Southey,  as  he  was  in  prudence  bound  to  do,  ac- 
cepted the  appointment,  hastened  back  to  Keswick,  bade 
farewell  for  a  little  while  to  his  wife,  and  started  for  Dub- 
lin in  no  cheerful  frame  of  mind. 

At  a  later  time,  Southey  possessed  Irish  friends  whom 
he  honoured  and  loved ;  he  has  written  wise  and  humane 
words  about  the  Irish  people.  But  all  through  his  career 
Ireland  was  to  Southey  somewhat  too  much  that  ideal 
country — of  late  to  be  found  only  in  the  region  of  humor- 
ous-pathetic melodrama — in  which  the  business  of  life  is 
carried  on  mainly  by  the  agency  of  bulls  and  blunder- 
busses ;  and  it  required  a  distinct  effort  on  his  part  to  con- 


in.]  WANDERINGS,  1Y95— 1803.  75 

ceive  the  average  Teague  or  Patrick  otherwise  than  as  a 
potato-devouring  troglodyte,  on  occasions  grotesquely  ami- 
able, but  more  often  with  the  rage  of  Popery  working  in 
his  misproportioned  features.  Those  hours  during  which 
Southey  waited  for  the  packet  were  among  the  heaviest 
of  his  existence.  After  weary  tackings  in  a  baffling  wind, 
the  ship  was  caught  into  a  gale,  and  was  whirled  away, 
fifteen  miles  north  of  Dublin,  to  the  fishing -town  of 
Balbriggan.  Then,  a  drive  across  desolate  country,  which 
would  have  depressed  the  spirits  had  it  not  been  enlivened 
by  the  airs  and  humours  of  little  Dr.  Solomon,  the  unique, 
the  omniscient,  the  garrulous,  next  after  Bonaparte  the 
most  illustrious  of  mortals,  inventor  of  the  Cordial  Balm 
of  Gilead,  and  possessor  of  a  hundred  puncheons  of  rum. 
When  the  new  private  secretary  arrived,  the  chancellor 
was  absent ;  the  secretary,  therefore,  set  to  work  on  re- 
building a  portion  of  his  Madoc.  Presently  Mr.  Corry 
appeared,  and  there  was  a  bow  and  a  shake  of  hands; 
then  he  hurried  away  to  London,  to  be  followed  by 
Southey,  who,  going  round  by  Keswick,  was  there  joined 
by  his  wife.  From  London  Southey  writes  to  Rickman, 
"  The  chancellor  and  the  scribe  go  on  in  the  same  way. 
The  scribe  hath  made  out  a  catalogue  of  all  books  pub- 
lished since  the  commencement  of  '97  upon  finance  and 
scarcity ;  he  hath  also  copied  a  paper  written  by  J.  R. 
[John  Rickman]  containing  some  L-isli  alderman's  hints 
about  oak-bark;  and  nothing  more  hath  the  scribe  done 
in  his  vocation.  Duly  he  calls  at  the  chancellor's  door; 
sometimes  he  is  admitted  to  immediate  audience ;  some- 
times kicketh  his  heels  in  the  antechamber ;  .  .  .  some- 
times a  gracious  message  emancipates  him  for  the  day. 
Secrecy  hath  been  enjoined  him  as  to  these  State  proceed- 
ings.    On  three  subjects  he  is  directed  to  read  and  re- 


•76  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

search — corn-laws,  finance,  tythes,  according  to  their  write 
ten  order."  The  independent  journals  meanwhile  had 
compared  Corry  and  Southey,  the  two  State  conspirators, 
to  Erapson  and  Dudley ;  and  delicately  expressed  a  hope 
that  the  poet  would  make  no  false  numbers  in  his  new  work. 
Southey,  who  had  already  worn  an  ass's  head  in  one  of 
Gillray's  caricatures,  was  not  afflicted  by  the  newspaper 
sarcasm ;  but  the  vacuity  of  such  a  life  was  intolerable ; 
and  when  it  was  proposed  that  he  should  become  tutor  to 
Corry's  son,  he  brought  his  mind  finally  to  the  point  of 
resigning  "  a  foolish  office  and  a  good  salary."  His  no- 
tions of  competence  were  moderate ;  the  vagabondage  be- 
tween the  Irish  and  English  headquarters  entailed  by  his 
office  was  irksome.  His  books  were  accumulating,  and 
there  was  ample  work  to  be  done  among  them  if  he  had 
but  a  quiet  library  of  his  own.  Then,  too,  there  was  anoth- 
er good  reason  for  resigning.  A  new  future  was  opening 
for  Southey.  Early  in  the  year  (1802)  his  mother  died. 
She  had  come  to  London  to  be  with  her  son ;  there  she 
had  been  stricken  with  mortal  illness ;  true  to  her  happy, 
self-forgetful  instincts,  she  remained  calm,  uncomplaining, 
considerate  for  others.  '•  Go  down,  my  dear ;  I  shall  sleep 
presently,"  she  had  said,  knowing  that  death  was  at  hand. 
With  his  mother,  the  last  friend  of  Southey's  infancy  and 
childhood  was  gone.  "  I  calmed  and  curbed  myself,"  he 
writes,  "  and  forced  myself  to  employment ;  but  at  night 
there  was  no  sound  of  feet  in  her  bedroom,  to  which  I 
had  been  used  to  listen,  and  in  the  morning  it  was  not  my 
first  business  to  see  her,"  The  past  was  past  indeed.  But 
as  the  year  opened,  it  brought  a  happy  promise ;  before 
summer  would  end,  a  child  might  be  in  his  arms.  Here 
were  sufficient  reasons  for  his  resignation ;  a  library  and  a 
nursery  ought,  he  says,  to  be  stationary. 


m.]  WANDERINGS,  1795—1803.  71 

To  Bristol  husband  and  wife  came,  and  there  found  a 
small  furnished  house.  After  the  roar  of  Fleet  Street, 
and  the  gathering  of  distinguished  men — Fuscli,  Flaxman, 
Barry,  Lamb,  Campbell,  Bowles — there  was  a  strangeness 
in  the  great  quiet  of  the  place.  But  in  that  quiet  Southey 
could  observe  each  day  the  growth  of  the  pile  of  manu- 
script containing  his  version  of  Amadis  of  Gaul,  for  which 
Longman  and  Rees  promised  him  a  munificent  sixty  pounds. 
He  toiled  at  his  History  of  Portugal,  finding  matter  of 
special  interest  in  that  part  which  was  concerned  with  the 
religious  orders.  He  received  from  his  Lisbon  collection 
precious  boxes  folio -crammed.  "My  dear  and  noble 
books  !  Such  folios  of  saints !  dull  books  enough  for  my 
patience  to  diet  upon,  till  all  my  flock  be  gathered  togeth- 
er into  one  fold."  Sixteen  volumes  of  Spanish  poetry  are 
lying  uncut  in  the  next  room  ;  a  folio  yet  untasted  jogs 
his  elbow ;  two  of  the  best  and  rarest  chronicles  coyly  in- 
vite him.  He  had  books  enough  in  England  to  employ 
three  years  of  active  industry.  And  underlying  all  thoughts 
of  the  great  Constable  Nuiio  Alvares  Pereyra,  of  the  King 
D.  Joao  L,  and  of  the  Cid,  deeper  than  the  sportsman 
pleasure  of  hunting  from  their  lair  strange  facts  about  the 
orders  Cistercian,  Franciscan,  Dominican,  Jesuit,  there  was 
a  thought  of  that  new-comer  whom,  says  Southey,  "I  al- 
ready feel  disposed  to  call  whelp  and  dog,  and  all  those 
vocables  of  vituperation  by  which  a  man  loves  to  call  those 
he  loves  best." 

In  September,  1802,  was  born  Southey's  first  child, 
named  Margaret  Edith,  after  her  mother  and  her  dead 
grandmother;  a  flat -nosed,  round -foreheaded,  grey-eyed, 
good-humoured  girl.  "  I  call  Margaret,"  he  says,  in  a  sober 
mood  of  fatherly  happiness,  "  by  way  of  avoiding  all  com- 
monplace phraseology  of  endearment,  a  worthy  child  and 


'78  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

a  most  excellent  character.  She  loves  me  better  than  any 
one  except  her  mother ;  her  eyes  are  as  quick  as  thought ; 
she  is  all  life  and  spirit,  and  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long ; 
but  that  little  brain  of  hers  is  never  at  rest,  and  it  is  pain- 
ful to  see  how  dreams  disturb  her."  For  Margery  and 
her  mother  and  the  folios  a  habitation  must  be  found. 
Southey  inclined  now  towards  settling  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  London — now  towards  Norwich,  where  Dr.  Sayers 
and  William  Taylor  would  welcome  him  —  now  towards 
Keswick ;  but  its  horrid  latitude,  its  incessant  rains !  On 
the  whole,  his  heart  turned  most  fondly  to  Wales;  and 
there,  in  one  of  the  loveliest  spots  of  Great  Britain,  in  the 
Vale  of  Neath,  was  a  house  to  let,  by  name  Maes  Gwyn. 
Southey  gave  his  fancy  the  rein,  and  pictured  himself 
"  housed  and  homed  "  in  Maes  Gwyn,  working  steadily  at 
the  History  of  Portugal,  and  now  and  again  glancing  away 
from  his  work  to  have  a  look  at  Margery  seated  in  her 
little  great  chair.  But  it  was  never  to  be;  a  difference 
with  the  landlord  brought  to  an  end  his  treaty  for  the 
house,  and  in  August  the  child  lay  dying.  It  was  bitter 
to  part  with  what  had  been  so  long  desired — during  sev- 
en childless  years  —  and  what  had  grown  so  dear.  But 
Southey's  heart  was  strong ;  he  drew  himself  together,  re- 
turned to  his  toil,  now  less  joyous  than  before,  and  set 
himself  to  strengthen  and  console  his  wife. 

Bristol  was  henceforth  a  place  of  mournful  memories. 
"  Edith,"  writes  Southey,  "  will  be  nowhere  so  well  as 
with  her  sister  Coleridge.  She  has  a  little  girl  some  six 
months  old,  and  I  shall  try  and  graft  her  into  the  wound 
while  it  is  yet  fresh."  Thus  Greta  Hall  received  its  guests 
(September,  1803).  At  first  the  sight  of  little  Sara  Cole- 
ridge and  her  baby  cooings  caused  shootings  of  pain  on 
which  Southey  had  not  counted.     Was  the  experiment  of 


111.]  WANDERINGS,  1795—1803.  79 

this  removal  to  prove  a  failure  ?  He  still  felt  as  if  he  were 
a  feather  driven  by  the  -wind.  "  I  have  no  symptoms  of 
root-striking  here,"  he  said.  But  he  spoke,  not  knowing 
■what  was  before  him ;  the  years  of  wandering  were  indeed 
over ;  here  he  had  found  his  home. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

WAYS    OF    LIFE    AT    KESWICK,   1803 1839. 

The  best  of  life  witli  Soutliey  was  yet  to  come ;  but  in 
what  remains  there  are  few  outstanding  events  to  chroni- 
cle ;  there  is  nowhere  any  splendour  of  circumstance.  Of 
some  lives  the  virtue  is  distilled,  as  it  were,  into  a  few  ex- 
quisite moments — moments  of  rapture,  of  vision,  of  sud- 
den and  shining  achievement ;  all  the  days  and  years  seem 
to  exist  only  for  the  sake  of  such  faultless  moments,  and 
it  matters  little  whether  such  a  life,  of  whose  very  essence 
it  is  to  break  the  bounds  of  time  and  space,  be  long  or 
short  as  measured  by  the  falling  of  sandgrains  or  the 
creeping  of  a  shadow.  Southey's  life  was  not  one  of 
these ;  its  excellence  was  constant,  uniform,  perhaps  some- 
what too  evenly  distributed.  He  wrought  in  his  place  day 
after  day,  season  after  season.  He  submitted  to  the  good 
laws  of  use  and  wont.  He  grew  stronger,  calmer,  more 
full-fraught  with  stores  of  knowledge,  richer  in  treasure  of 
the  heart.  Time  laid  its  hand  upon  him  gently  and  un- 
falteringly :  the  bounding  step  became  less  light  and  swift ; 
the  ringing  voice  lapsed  into  sadder  fits  of  silence ;  the 
raven  hair  changed  to  a  snowy  white ;  only  still  the  inde- 
fatigable eye  ran  down  the  long  folio  columns,  and  the  in- 
defatigable hand  still  held  the  pen — until  all  true  life  had 
ceased.     When  it  has  been  said  that  Southey  was  appoint- 


chap.it.]    ways  of  life  AT  KESWICK,  1803—1839.  81 

ed  Pye's  successor  in  the  laureateship,  that  lie  received  an 
honorary  degree  from  his  university,  that  now  and  again 
he  visited  the  Continent,  that  children  were  born  to  him 
from  among  whom  death  made  choice  of  the  dearest ;  and 
when  we  add  that  he  wrote  and  published  books,  the  lead- 
ing facts  of  Southey's  life  have  been  told.  Had  he  been 
a  worse  or  a  weaker  man,  we  might  look  to  find  mysteries, 
picturesque  vices,  or  engaging  follies ;  as  it  is,  everything 
is  plain,  straightforward,  substantial.  What  makes  the  life 
of  Southey  eminent  and  singular  is  its  unity  of  purpose, 
its  persistent  devotion  to  a  chosen  object,  its  simplicity, 
purity,  loyalty,  fortitude,  kindliness,  truth. 

The  river  Greta,  before  passing  under  the  bridge  at  the 
end  of  Main  Street,  Keswick,  winds  about  the  little  hill  on 
which  stands  Greta  Hall ;  its  murmur  may  be  heard  when 
all  is  still  beyond  the  garden  and  orchard ;  to  the  west  it 
catches  the  evening  light.  "  In  front,"  Coleridge  wrote 
when  first  inviting  his  friend  to  settle  with  him,  "we  have 
a  giants'  camp — an  encamped  army  of  tent-like  mountains, 
which  by  an  inverted  arch  gives  a  view  of  another  vale. 
On  our  right  the  lovely  vale  and  the  wedge-shaped  lake 
of  Bassenthwaite ;  and  on  our  left  Derwentwater  and  Lo- 
dore  full  in  view,  and  the  fantastic  mountains  of  Borrow- 
dale.  Behind  us  the  massy  Skiddaw,  smooth,  green,  high, 
with  two  chasms  and  a  tent -like  ridge  in  the  larger." 
Southey's  house  belongs  in  a  peculiar  degree  to  his  life : 
in  it  were  stored  the  treasures  upon  which  his  intellect 
drew  for  sustenance ;  in  it  his  affections  found  their  earth- 
ly abiding- place;  all  the  most  mirthful,  all  the  most 
mournful,  recollections  of  Southey  hang  about  it ;  to  it  in 
every  little  wandering  his  heart  reverted  like  an  exile's; 
it  was  at  once  his  workshop  and  his  playground ;  and  for 
a  time,  while  he  endured  a  living  death,  it  became  his  ante- 


82  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

chamber  to  the  tomb.  The  rambling  tenement  consisted 
of  two  houses  under  one  roof,  the  larger  part  being  occu- 
pied by  the  Coleridges  and  Southeys,  the  smaller  for  a 
time  by  Mr,  Jackson,  their  landlord.  On  the  ground-floor 
was  the  parlour  which  served  as  dining-room  and  general 
sitting-room,  a  pleasant  chamber  looking  upon  the  green 
in  front;  here  also  were  Aunt  Lovell's  sitting-room,  and 
the  mangling -room,  in  which  stood  ranged  in  a  row  the 
long  array  of  clogs,  from  the  greatest  even  unto  the  least, 
figuring  in  a  symbol  the  various  stages  of  human  life. 
The  stairs  to  the  right  of  the  kitchen  led  to  a  landing- 
place  filled  with  bookcases;  a  few  steps  more  led  to  the 
little  bedroom  occupied  by  Mrs.  Coleridge  and  her  daugh- 
ter. "  A  few  steps  farther,"  writes  Sara  Coleridge,  whose 
description  is  here  given  in  abridgment,  "  was  a  little  wing 
bedroom — then  the  study,  where  my  uncle  sat  all  day  oc- 
cupied with  literary  labours  and  researches,  but  which  was 
used  as  a  drawing-room  for  company.  Here  all  the  tea- 
visiting  guests  were  received.  The  room  had  three  win- 
dows, a  large  one  looking  down  upon  the  green  with  the 
wide  flower-border,  and  over  to  Keswick  Lake  and  moun- 
tains beyond.  There  were  two  smaller  windows  looking 
towards  the  lower  part  of  the  town  seen  beyond  the  nurs- 
ery-garden. The  room  was  lined  with  books  in  fine  bind- 
ings ;  there  were  books  also  in  brackets,  elegantly  lettered 
vellum -covered  volumes  lying  on  their  sides  in  a  heap. 
The  walls  were  hung  with  pictures,  mostly  portraits.  ...  At 
the  back  of  the  room  w'as  a  comfortable  sofa,  and  there 
were  sundry  tables,  beside  my  uncle's  library  table,  his 
screen,  desk,  etc.  Altogether,  with  its  internal  fittings  up, 
its  noble  outlook,  and  something  pleasing  in  its  propor^ 
tions,  this  was  a  charming  room."  Hard  by  the  study 
was  Southey's  bedroom.     We  need  not  ramble   farther 


IT.]  WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  1803—1839.  83 

tbrougli  passages  lined  with  books,  and  up  and  down 
flights  of  stairs  to  Mr.  Jackson's  organ -room,  and  Mrs. 
Lovell's  room,  and  Hartley's  parlour,  and  the  nurseries,  and 
the  dark  apple-room  supposed  to  be  the  abode  of  a  bogle. 
Without,  greensward,  flowers,  shrubs,  strawberry  -  beds, 
fruit-trees,  encircled  the  house  ;  to  the  back,  beyond  the 
orchard,  a  little  wood  stretched  down  to  the  river-side.  A 
rough  path  ran  along  the  bottom  of  the  wood ;  here,  on  a 
covered  seat,  Southey  often  read  or  planned  future  work, 
and  here  his  little  niece  loved  to  play  in  sight  of  the  dim- 
pling water.  "  Dear  Greta  Hall !"  she  exclaims ;  "  and  oh, 
that  rough  path  beside  the  Greta !  How  much  of  my 
childhood,  of  my  girlhood,  of  my  youth,  were  spent  there  !" 
''Southey's  attachment  to  his  mountain  town  and  its  lakes 
was  of  no  sudden  growth.  He  came  to  them  as  one  not 
born  under  their  influence ;  that  power  of  hills  to  which 
Wordsworth  owed  fealty,  had  not  brooded  upon  Southey 
during  boyhood ;  the  rich  southern  meadows,  the  wooded 
cliffs  of  Avon,  the  breezy  downs,  had  nurtured  his  imagina- 
tion, and  to  these  he  was  still  bound  by  pieties  of  the  heart. 
In  the  churchyard  at  Ashton,  where  lay  his  father  and  his 
kinsfolk,  the  beneficent  cloud  of  mingled  love  and  sorrow 
most  overshadowed  his  spirit.  His  imagination  did  not 
soar,  as  did  Wordsworth's,  in  naked  solitudes ;  he  did  not 
commune  with  a  Presence  immanent  in  external  nature : 
the  world,  as  he  viewed  it,  was  an  admirable  habitation  for 
mankind — a  habitation  with  a  history.  Even  after  he  had 
grown  a  mountaineer,  he  loved  a  humanized  landscape,  one 
in  which  the  gains  of  man's  courage,  toil,  and  endurance 
are  apparent.  Flanders,  where  the  spade  has  wrought  its 
miracles  of  diligence,  where  the  slow  canal -boat  glides, 
where  the  carillons  ripple  from  old  spires,  where  sturdy 
burghers   fought  for  freedom,  and  where  vellum -bound 


84  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

quartos  might  be  sought  and  found,  Flanders,  on  the  whole, 
gave  Southey  deeper  and  stronger  feelings  than  did  Switz- 
erland. The  ideal  land  of  his  dreams  was  always  Spain ; 
the  earthly  paradise  for  him  was  Cintra,  with  its  glory  of 
sun,  and  a  glow  even  in  its  depths  of  shadow.  But  as  the 
years  went  by,  Spain  became  more  and  more  a  memory, 
less  and  less  a  hope ;  and  the  realities  of  life  in  his  home 
were  of  more  worth  every  day.  When,  in  1807,  it  grew 
clear  that  Greta  Hall  was  to  be  his  life-long  place  of  abode, 
Southey's  heart  closed  upon  it  with  a  tenacious  grasp.  He 
set  the  plasterer  and  carpenter  to  work ;  he  planted  shrubs ; 
he  enclosed  the  garden ;  he  gathered  his  books  about  him, 
and  thought  that  here  were  materials  for  the  industry  of 
many  years ;  he  held  in  his  arms  children  who  were  born 
in  this  new  home ;  and  he  looked  to  Crosthwaite  Church- 
yard, expecting,  with  quiet  satisfaction,  that  when  toil  was 
ended  he  should  there  take  his  rest. 

"  I  don't  talk  much  about  these  things,"  Southey  writes ; 
"  but  these  lakes  and  mountains  give  me  a  deep  joy  for 
which  I  suspect  nothing  elsewhere  can  compensate,  and 
this  is  a  feeling  which  time  strengthens  instead  of  weaken- 
ing." Some  of  the  delights  of  southern  counties  he  miss- 
ed ;  his  earliest  and  deepest  recollections  were  connected 
with  flowers ;  both  flowers  and  fruits  were  now  too  few ; 
there  was  not  a  cowslip  to  be  found  near  Keswick.  *'  Here 
in  Cumberland  I  miss  the  nightingale  and  the  \dolet — the 
most  delightful  bird  and  the  sweetest  flower."  But  for 
such  losses  there  were  compensations.  A  pastoral  land 
will  give  amiable  pledges  for  the  seasons  and  the  months, 
and  will  perform  its  engagements  with  a  punctual  observ- 
ance ;  to  this  the  mountains  hardly  condescend,  but  they 
shower  at  their  will  a  sudden  largess  of  unimagined  beau- 
ty.    Southey  would  sally  out  for  a  constitutional  at  his 


IV.]  WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  1803—1839.  85 

three-mile  pace,  the  peaked  cap  slightly  shadowing  his 
eyes,  which  were  coursing  over  the  pages  of  a  book  held 
open  as  he  walked ;  he  had  left  his  study  to  obtain  exer- 
cise, and  so  to  preserve  health ;  he  was  not  a  laker  engaged 
in  view-hunting ;  he  did  not  affect  the  contemplative  mood 
which  at  the  time  was  not  and  could  not  be  his.  But  when 
he  raised  his  eyes,  or  Avhen,  quickening  his  three-mile  to  a 
four-mile  pace,  he  closed  the  book,  the  beauty  which  lay 
around  him  liberated  and  soothed  his  spirit.  This  it  did 
unfailingly ;  and  it  might  do  more,  for  incalculable  splen- 
dours, visionary  glories,  exaltations,  terrors,  are  momentari- 
ly possible  where  mountain,  and  cloud,  and  wind,  and  sun- 
shine meet.  Southey,  as  he  says,  did  not  talk  much  of 
these  things,  but  they  made  life  for  him  immeasurably 
better  than  it  would  have  been  in  city  confinement ;  there 
were  spaces,  vistas,  an  atmosphere  around  his  sphere  of 
work,  which  lightened  and  relieved  it.  The  engagements 
in  his  study  were  always  so  numerous  and  so  full  of  inter- 
est that  it  needed  an  effort  to  leave  the  table  piled  with 
books  and  papers.  But  a  May  morning  would  draw  him 
forth  into  the  sun  in  spite  of  himself.  Once  abroad, 
Southey  had  a  vigorous  joy  in  the  quickened  blood,  and 
the  muscles  impatient  with  energy  long  pent  up.  The 
streams  were  his  especial  delight ;  he  never  tired  of  their 
deep  retirement,  their  shy  loveliness,  and  their  melody ; 
they  could  often  beguile  him  into  an  hour  of  idle  medita- 
tion ;  their  beauty  has  in  an  especial  degree  passed  into 
his  verse.  When  his  sailor  brother  Thomas  came  and  set- 
tled in  the  Vale  of  Newlands,  Southey  would  quickly  cov- 
er the  ground  from  Keswick  at  his  four-mile  pace,  and  in 
the  beck  at  the  bottom  of  Tom's  fields,  on  summer  days, 
he  would  plunge  and  re-plunge  and  act  the  river-god  in 
the  natural  seats  of  mossy  stone.     Or  he  would  be  over- 


86  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

powered  some  autumn  morning  by  the  clamour  of  childisli 
voices  voting  a  boliday  by  acclamation.  Their  father  must 
accompany  them ;  it  would  do  him  good,  they  knew  it 
would ;  they  knew  he  did  not  take  sufficient  exercise,  for 
they  had  heard  him  say  so.  Where  should  the  scramble 
be  ?  To  Skiddaw  Dod,  or  Causey  Pike,  or  Watenlath,  or, 
as  a  compromise  between  their  exuberant  activity  and  his 
inclination  for  the  chair  and  the  fireside,  to  Walla  Crag? 
And  there,  while  his  young  companions  opened  their  bas- 
kets and  took  their  noonday  meal,  Southey  would  seat 
himself — as  Westall  has  drawn  him — upon  the  bough  of 
an  ash -tree,  the  water  flowing  smooth  and  green  at  his 
feet,  but  a  little  higher  up  broken,  flashing,  and  whitening 
in  its  fall ;  and  there  in  the  still  autumn  noon  he  would 
muse  happily,  placidly,  not  now  remembering  with  over- 
keen  desire  the  gurgling  tanks  and  fountains  of  Cintra,  his 
Paradise  of  early  manhood.* 

On  summer  days,  when  the  visits  of  friends,  or  strangers 
bearing  letters  of  introduction,  compelled  him  to  idleness, 
Southey's  more  ambitious  excursions  were  taken.  But  he 
was  well  aware  that  those  who  form  acquaintance  with  a 
mountain  region  during  a  summer  all  blue  and  gold,  know 
little  of  its  finer  power.  It  is  October  that  brings  most 
often  those  days  faultless,  pearl-pure,  of  affecting  influence, 

"  In  the  long  year  set 
Like  captain  jewels  in  the  carcanet." 

Then,  as  Wordsworth  has  said,  the  atmosphere  seems  re- 
fined, and  the  sky  rendered  more  crystalline,  as  the  vivify- 
ing heat  of  the  year  abates;  the  lights  and  shadows  are 
more  delicate ;   the  colouring  is  richer  and  more  finely 

1  For  Westall's  drawing,  and  the  description  of  Walla  Crag,  see 
"Sir  Thomas  More:"  Colloquy  VI. 


IV.]  WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  1803—1839.  87 

harmonized ;  and,  in  this  season  of  stillness,  the  ear  being 
unoccupied,  or  only  gently  excited,  the  sense  of  vision 
becomes  more  susceptible  of  its  appropriate  enjoyments. 
Even  December  is  a  better  month  than  July  for  perceiving 
the  special  greatness  of  a  mountainous  country.  When 
the  snow  lies  on  the  fells  soft  and  smooth,  Grisedale  Pike 
and  Skiddaw  drink  in  tints  at  morning  and  evening  mar- 
vellous as  those  seen  upon  Mont  Blanc  or  the  Jungfrau  for 
purity  and  richness. 

"  Summer,"  writes  Southey,  "  is  not  the  season  for  this 
country.  Coleridge  says,  and  says  well,  that  then  it  is  like 
a  theatre  at  noon.  There  are  no  goings  on  under  a  clear 
sky  ;  but  at  other  seasons  there  is  such  shifting  of  shades, 
such  islands  of  light,  such  columns  and  buttresses  of  sun- 
shine, as  might  almost  make  a  painter  burn  his  brushes,  as 
the  sorcerers  did  their  books  of  magic  when  they  saw  the 
divinity  which  rested  upon  the  apostles.  The  very  snow, 
which  you  would  perhaps  think  must  monotonize  the 
mountains,  gives  new  varieties ;  it  brings  out  their  recesses 
and  designates  all  their  inequalities ;  it  impresses  a  better 
feeling  of  their  height ;  and  it  reflects  such  tints  of  saffron, 
or  fawn,  or  rose-colour  to  the  evening  sun.  0  Maria 
Santissima  !  Mount  Horeb,  with  the  glory  upon  its  sum- 
mit, might  have  been  more  glorious,  but  not  more  beauti- 
ful than  old  Skiddaw  in  his  winter  pelisse.  I  will  not 
quarrel  with  frost,  though  the  fellow  has  the  impudence 
to  take  me  by  the  nose.  The  lake-side  has  such  ten  thou- 
sand charms :  a  fleece  of  snow  or  of  the  hoar-frost  lies  on 
the  fallen  trees  or  large  stones ;  the  grass-points,  that  just 
peer  above  the  water,  are  powdered  with  diamonds;  the 
ice  on  the  margin  with  chains  of  crystal,  and  such  veins 
and  wavy  lines  of  beauty  as  mock  all  art ;  and,  to  crown 
all,  Coleridge  and  I  have  found  out  that  stones  thrown 


88  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

upon  the  lake  when  frozen  make  a  noise  like  singing  birds, 
and  when  you  whirl  on  it  a  large  flake  of  ice,  away  the 
shivers  slide,  chirping  and  warbling  like  a  flight  of  finches." 
This  tells  of  a  February  at  Keswick ;  the  following  de- 
scribes the  goings  on  under  an  autumn  sky  : — "  The  moun* 
tains  on  Thursday  evening,  before  the  sun  was  quite  down, 
or  the  moon  bright,  were  all  of  one  dead-blue  colour ;  their 
rifts  and  rocks  and  swells  and  scars  had  all  disappeared — 
the  surface  was  perfectly  uniform,  nothing  but  the  outline 
distinct;  and  this  even  surface  of  dead  blue,  from  its  un- 
natural uniformity,  made  them,  though  not  transparent, 
appear  transvious — as  though  they  were  of  some  soft  or 
cloudy  texture  through  which  you  could  have  passed. 
I  never  saw  any  appearance  so  perfectly  unreal.  Some- 
times a  blazing  sunset  seems  to  steep  them  through  and 
through  with  red  light ;  or  it  is  a  cloudy  morning,  and  the 
sunshine  slants  down  through  a  rift  in  the  clouds,  and  the 
pillar  of  light  makes  the  spot  whereon  it  falls  so  emerald 
green,  that  it  looks  like  a  little  field  of  Paradise.  At  night 
you  lose  the  mountains,  and  the  wind  so  stirs  up  the  lake 
that  it  looks  like  the  sea  by  moonlight." 

If  Southey  had  not  a  companion  by  his  side,  the  soli- 
tude of  his  ramble  was  unbroken  ;  he  never  had  the  knack 
of  forgathering  with  chance  acquaintance.  With  intellect- 
ual and  moral  boldness,  and  with  high  spirits,  he  united  a 
constitutional  bashfulness  and  reserve.  His  retired  life, 
his  habits  of  constant  study,  and,  in  later  years,  his  short- 
ness of  sight,  fell  in  with  this  infirmity.  He  would  not 
patronize  his  humbler  neighbours ;  he  had  a  kind  of  imag- 
inative jealousy  on  behalf  of  their  rights  as  independent 
persons ;  and  he  could  not  be  sure  of  straightway  discover- 
ing, by  any  genius  or  instinct  of  good-fellowship,  that  com- 
mon ground  whereon  strangers  are  at  home  with  one  an- 


IV.]  WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  1803—1839.  89 

other.  Hence — and  Southey  himself  wished  that  it  had 
been  otherwise — long  as  he  resided  at  Keswick,  there  were 
perhaps  not  twenty  persons  of  the  lower  ranks  whom  he 
knew  by  sight.  "  After  slightly  returning  the  salutation 
of  some  passer-by,"  says  his  son,  "  he  would  again  mechan- 
ically lift  his  cap  as  he  heard  some  well-known  name  in 
reply  to  his  inquiries,  and  look  back  with  regret  that  the 
greeting  had  not  been  more  cordial." 

If  the  ice  were  fairly  broken,  he  found  it  natural  to  be 
easy  and  familiar,  and  by  those  whom  he  employed  he  was 
regarded  with  affectionate  reverence.  Mrs.  Wilson — kind 
and  generous  creature — remained  in  Greta  Hall  tending  the 
children  as  they  grew  up,  until  she  died,  grieved  for  by  the 
whole  household.  Joseph  Glover,  who  created  the  scare- 
crow "  Statues  "  for  the  garden — male  and  female  created 
he  them,  as  the  reader  may  see  them  figured  toward  the 
close  of  The  Doctor — Glover,  the  artist  who  set  up  Edith's 
fantastic  chimney-piece  ("  Well,  Miss  Southey,"  cried  hon- 
est Joseph,  "  I've  done  my  Devils "),  was  employed  by 
Southey  during  five-and-twenty  years,  ever  since  he  was  a 
'prentice-boy.  If  any  warm-hearted  neighbour,  known  or 
unknown  to  him,  came  forward  with  a  demand  on  South- 
ey's  sympathies,  he  was  sure  to  meet  a  neighbourly  re- 
sponse. When  the  miller,  who  had  never  spoken  to  him 
before,  invited  the  laureate  to  rejoice  with  him  over  the 
pig  he  had  killed — the  finest  ever  fattened  —  and  when 
Southey  was  led  to  the  place  where  that  which  had  ceased 
to  be  pig  and  was  not  yet  bacon,  was  hung  up  by  the  hind 
feet,  he  filled  up  the  measure  of  the  good  man's  joy  by 
hearty  appreciation  of  a  porker's  points.  But  Cumber- 
land enthusiasm  seldom  flames  abroad  with  so  prodigal  a 
blaze  as  that  of  the  worthy  miller's  heart. 

Within  the  charmed  circle  of  home,  Southey's  temper 
OS  ^ 


90  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

and  manners  were  full  of  a  strong  and  sweet  hilarity  ;  and 
the  home  circle  was  in  itself  a  considerable  group  of  per- 
sons. The  Pantisocratic  scheme  of  a  community  was, 
after  all,  near  finding  a  fulfilment,  only  that  the  Greta  ran 
by  in  place  of  the  Susquehanna,  and  that  Southey  took 
upon  his  own  shoulders  the  work  of  the  dead  Lovell,  and 
of  Coleridge,  who  lay  in  weakness  and  dejection,  whelmed 
under  the  tide  of  di'eams.  For  some  little  time  Coleridge 
continued  to  reside  at  Keswick,  an  admirable  companion 
in  almost  all  moods  of  mind,  for  all  kinds  of  wisdom,  and 
all  kinds  of  nonsense.  When  he  was  driven  abroad  in 
search  of  health,  it  seemed  as  if  a  brightness  were  gone 
out  of  the  air,  and  the  horizon  of  life  had  grown  definite 
and  contracted.  "  It  is  now  almost  ten  years,"  Southey 
writes,  "  since  he  and  I  first  met  in  my  rooms  at  Oxford, 
which  meeting  decided  the  destiny  of  both.  ...  I  am  per- 
petually pained  at  thinking  what  he  ought  to  be,  .  .  .  but 
the  tidings  of  his  death  would  come  upon  me  more  like 
a  stroke  of  lightning  than  any  evil  I  have  ever  yet  endured." 
Mrs.  Coleridge,  with  her  children,  remained  at  Greta 
Hall.  That  quaint  little  metaphysician,  Hartley — now  an- 
swering to  the  name  of  Moses,  now  to  that  of  Job,  the 
oddest  of  all  God's  creatures — was  an  unceasing  wonder 
and  delight  to  his  uncle  :  "  a  strange,  strange  boy, '  ex- 
quisitely wild,'  an  utter  visionary,  like  the  moon  among 
thin  clouds,  he  moves  in  a  circle  of  his  own  making.  He 
alone  is  a  light  of  his  own.  Of  all  human  beings  I  never 
saw  one  so  utterly  naked  of  self."  When  his  father  ex- 
pressed surprise  that  Hartley  should  take  his  pleasure  of 
wheel-barrow-riding  so  sadly,  "  The  pity  is  " — explained  lit- 
tle Job — "  the  pity  is,  Fse  always  thinking  of  my  thoughts." 
"  '  I'm  a  boy  of  a  very  religious  turn,'  he  says  ;  for  he  al- 
ways talks  of  himself  and  examines  his  own  character,  just 


IV.]  WAYS  OF  Lli^E  AT  KESWICK,  1803—1839.  91 

as  if  he  were  speaking  of  another  person,  and  as  impar- 
tially. Every  night  he  makes  an  extempore  prayer  aloud ; 
but  it  is  always  in  bed,  and  not  till  he  is  comfortable  there 
and  got  into  the  mood.  When  he  is  ready,  he  touches 
Mrs.  Wilson,  who  sleeps  with  him,  and  says, '  Now  listen  !' 
and  off  he  sets  like  a  preacher."  Younger  than  Hartley 
was  Derwent  Coleridge,  a  fair,  broad-chested  boy,  with 
merry  eye  and  roguish  lips,  now  grown  out  of  that  yellow 
frock  in  which  he  had  earned  his  name  of  Stumpy  Canary. 
Sara  Coleridge,  when  her  uncle  came  to  Keswick  after  the 
death  of  his  own  Margery,  was  a  little  grand-lama  at  that 
worshipful  age  of  seven  months.  A  fall  into  the  Greta,  a 
year  and  a  half  later,  helped  to  change  her  to  the  delicate 
creature  whose  large  blue  eyes  would  look  up  timidly 
from  under  her  lace  border  and  mufflings  of  muslin.  No 
feeling  towards  their  father  save  a  reverent  loyalty  did  the 
Coleridge  children  ever  learn  under  Southey's  roof.  But 
when  the  pale-faced  wanderer  returned  from  Italy,  he  sur- 
prised and  froze  his  daughter  by  a  sudden  revelation  of 
that  jealousy  which  is  the  fond  injustice  of  an  unsatisfied 
heart,  and  which  a  child  who  has  freely  given  and  taken 
love  finds  it  hard  to  comprehend.  "  I  think  ray  dear  fa- 
ther," writes  Sara  Coleridge,  "  was  anxious  that  I  should 
learn  to  love  him  and  the  Wordsworths  and  their  children, 
and  not  cling  so  exclusively  to  my  mother  and  all  around 
me  at  home."  Love  him  and  revere  his  memory  she  did ; 
to  Wordsworth  she  was  conscious  of  owing  more  than  to 
any  other  teacher  or  inspirer  in  matters  of  the  intellect 
and  imagination.  But  in  matters  of  the  heart  and  con- 
science the  daily  life  of  Southey  was  the  book  in  which 
she  read ;  he  was,  she  would  emphatically  declare,  "  upon 
the  whole,  the  best  man  she  had  ever  known." 

But  the   nepotism   of  the  most  "  nepotious "  uncle  is 


92  SOUTHEY.  [caip. 

uot  a  perfect  substitute  for  fatherhood  with  its  hopes  and 
fears.  May-morning  of  the  year  1804  saw  "an  Edithling 
very,  very  ugly,  with  no  more  beauty  than  a  young  dodo," 
nestling  by  Edith  Southey's  side.  A  trembling  thankful- 
ness possessed  the  little  one's  father;  but  when  the  Arc- 
tic weather  changed  suddenly  to  days  of  genial  sunshine, 
and  groves  and  gardens  burst  into  living  greenery,  and 
rang  with  song,  his  heart  was  caught  into  the  general  joy. 
Southey  was  not  without  a  presentiment  that  his  young 
dodo  would  improve.  Soon  her  premature  activity  of  eye 
and  spirits  troubled  him,  and  he  tried,  while  cherishing 
her,  to  put  a  guard  upon  his  heart.  "  I  did  not  mean  to 
trust  my  affections  again  on  so  frail  a  foundation  —  and 
yet  the  young  one  takes  me  from  my  desk  and  makes 
me  talk  nonsense  as  fluently  as  you  perhaps  can  imagine." 
When  Sara  Coleridge — not  yet  five  years  old,  but  already, 
as  she  half  believed,  promised  in  marriage  to  Mr.  De  Quin- 
cey — returned  after  a  short  absence  to  Greta  Hall,  she  saw 
her  baby  cousin,  sixteen  months  younger,  and  therefore 
not  yet  marriageable,  grown  into  a  little  girl  very  fair, 
with  thick  golden  hair,  and  round,  rosy  cheeks.  Edith 
Southey  inherited  something  of  her  father's  looks  and  of 
his  swift  intelligence ;  with  her  growing  beauty  of  face 
and  limbs  a  growing  excellence  of  inward  nature  kept 
pace.  At  twenty  she  was  the  "  elegant  cygnet "  of  Amelia 
Opie's  album  verses, 

"  'Twas  pleasant  to  meet 
And  see  thee,  famed  Swan  of  the  Derwent's  fair  tide, 
With  that  elegant  cygnet  that  floats  by  thy  side" — 

a  compliment  her  father  mischievously  would  not  let  her 
Elegancy  forget.  Those  who  would  know  her  in  the  love- 
liness of  youthful  womanhood  may  turn  to  Wordsworth's 


IV.]  WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  1803—1839.  93 

poem,  The  Triad,  where  she  appears  first  of  the  three  "  sis- 
ter nymphs "  of  Keswick  and  Rydal ;  or,  Hartley  Cole- 
ridge's exquisite  sonnet,  To  a  lofty  beauty,  from  her  poor 
kinsman  : 

"  Methinks  thy  scornful  mood, 
And  bearing  high  of  stately  womanhood — 
Thy  brow  where  Beauty  sits  to  tyrannize 
O'er  humble  love,  had  made  me  sadly  fear  thee : 
For  never  sure  was  seen  a  royal  bride. 
Whose  gentleness  gave  grace  to  so  much  pride— 
My  very  thoughts  would  tremble  to  be  near  thee. 
But  when  I  see  thee  by  thy  father's  side 
Old  times  unquecn  thee,  and  old  loves  endear  thee." 

But  it  is  best  of  all  to  remember  Southey's  daughter  in 
connexion  with  one  letter  of  her  father's.  In  1805  he 
visited  Scotland  alone ;  he  had  looked  forward  to  carry- 
ing on  the  most  cherished  purpose  of  his  life — the  Histo- 
ry of  Portugal — among  the  libraries  of  Lisbon.  But  it 
would  be  difficult  to  induce  Mrs.  Southey  to  travel  with 
the  Edithling.  Could  he  go  alone  ?  The  short  absence  in 
Scotland  served  to  test  his  heart,  and  so  to  make  his  future 
clear :  — 

*'  I  need  not  tell  you,  my  own  dear  Edith,  not  to  read  my 
letters  aloud  till  you  have  first  of  all  seen  what  is  written 
only  for  yourself.  What  I  have  now  to  say  to  you  is,  that 
having  been  eight  days  from  home,  with  as  little  discomfort, 
and  as  little  reason  for  discomfort,  as  a  man  can  reasonably 
expect,  I  have  yet  felt  so  little  comfortable,  so  great  sense  of 
solitariness,  and  so  many  homeward  yearnings,  that  certainly 
I  will  not  go  to  Lisbon  without  you ;  a  resolution  which,  if 
your  feelings  be  at  all  like  mine,  will  not  displease  you.  If, 
on  mature  consideration,  you  think  the  inconvenience  of  a 
voyage  more  than  you  ought  to  submit  to,  I  must  be  content 
to  stay  in  England,  as  on  my  part  it  certainly  is  not  worth 


94  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

while  to  sacrifice  a  year's  happiness ;  for  though  not  unhap- 
py (my  mind  is  too  active  and  too  well  disciplined  to  yield 
to  any  such  criminal  weakness),  still,  without  you  I  am  not 
happy.  But  for  your  sake  as  well  as  my  own,  and  for  little 
Edith's  sake,  I  will  not  consent  to  any  separation ;  the  growth 
of  a  year's  love  between  her  and  me,  if  it  please  God  that  she 
should  live,  is  a  thing  too  delightful  in  itself,  and  too  valua- 
ble in  its  consequences,  both  to  her  and  me,  to  be  given  up 
for  any  light  inconvenience  either  on  your  part  or  mine.  An 
absence  of  a  year  would  make  her  effectually  forget  me.  .  .  . 
But  of  these  things  we  will  talk  at  leisure ;  only,  dear,  dear 
Edith,  we  must  not  part." 

Such  wisdom  of  the  heart  was  justified ;  the  year  of 
growing  love  bore  precious  fruit.  When  Edith  May  was 
ten  years  old  her  father  dedicated  to  her,  in  verses  laden 
with  a  father's  tenderest  thoughts  and  feelings,  his  Tale  of 
Paraguay.  He  recalls  the  day  of  her  birth,  the  preceding 
sorrow  for  his  first  child,  whose  infant  features  have  faded 
from  him  like  a  passing  cloud ;  the  gladness  of  that  sing- 
ing month  of  May ;  the  seasons  that  followed  during 
which  he  observed  the  dawning  of  the  divine  light  in  her 
eyes;  the  playful  guiles  by  which  he  won  from  her  re- 
peated kisses :  to  him  these  ten  years  seem  like  yesterday ; 
but  to  her  they  have  brought  discourse  of  reason,  with  the 
sense  of  time  and  change : — 

"  And  I  have  seen  thine  eyes  suffused  in  grief 
When  I  have  said  that  with  autumnal  grey 
The  touch  of  old  hath  mark'd  thy  father's  head ; 
That  even  the  longest  day  of  life  is  brief. 
And  mine  is  falling  fast  into  the  yellow  leaf." 

Other  children  followed,  until  a  happy  stir  of  life  filled 
the  house.     Emma,  the  quietest  of  infants,  whose  voice 


IV.]  WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  1803—1839.  95 

was  seldom  heard,  and  whose  dark-grey  eyes  too  seldom 
shone  in  her  father's  study,  slipped  quietly  out  of  the 
world  after  a  hand's-breadth  of  existence ;  but  to  Southey 
she  was  no  more  really  lost  than  the  buried  brother  and 
sister  were  to  the  cottage  girl  of  Wordsworth's  We  are 
seven.  "I  have  live  children,"  he  says  in  1809;  "three 
of  them  at  home,  and  two  under  my  mother's  care  in 
heaven."  Of  all,  the  most  radiantly  beautiful  was  Isabel ; 
the  most  passionately  loved  was  Herbert.  "My  other 
two  are  the  most  perfect  contrast  you  ever  saw.  Bertha, 
whom  I  call  Queen  Henry  the  Eighth,  from  her  likeness 
to  King  Bluebeard,  grows  like  Jonah's  gourd,  and  is  the 
very  picture  of  robust  health  ;  and  little  Kate  hardly  seems 
to  grow  at  all,  though  perfectly  well — she  is  round  as  a 
mushroom -button.  Bertha,  the  bluff  queen,  is  just  as 
grave  as  Kate  is  garrulous ;  they  are  inseparable  playfel- 
lows, and  go  about  the  house  hand  in  hand." 

Among  the  inmates  of  Greta  Hall,  to  overlook  Lord 
Nelson  and  Bona  Marietta,  with  their  numerous  successors, 
would  be  a  grave  delinquency.  To  be  a  cat,  was  to  be  a 
privileged  member  of  the  little  republic  to  which  Southey 
gave  laws.  Among  the  fragments  at  the  end  of  The  Doc- 
tor will  be  found  a  Chronicle  History  of  the  Cattery  of 
Cat's  Eden  ;  and  some  of  Southey's  frolic  letters  are  writ- 
ten as  if  his  whole  business  in  life  were  that  of  secretary 
for  feline  affairs  in  Greta  Hall.  A  house,  he  declared,  is 
never  perfectly  furnished  for  enjoyment  unless  there  is  in 
it  a  child  rising  three  years  old  and  a  kitten  rising  six 
weeks;  "kitten  is  in  the  animal  world  what  the  rosebud 
is  in  the  garden."  Lord  Nelson,  an  ugly  specimen  of  the 
streaked-carroty  or  Judas-coloured  kind,  yet  withal  a  good 
cat,  affectionate,  vigilant,  and  brave,  was  succeeded  by  Ma- 
dame Bianchi,  a  beautiful  and  singular  creature,  white,  with 


96  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

a  fine  tabby  tail ;  "  her  wild  eyes  were  bright,  and  green 
as  the  Duchess  de  Cadaval's  emerald  necklace."  She  fled 
away  with  her  niece  Pulcheria  on  the  day  when  good  old 
Mrs.  Wilson  died ;  nor  could  any  allurements  induce  the 
pair  to  domesticate  themselves  again.  For  some  time  a 
cloud  of  doom  seemed  to  hang  over  Cat's  Eden.  Ovid  and 
Virgil,  Othello  the  Moor,  and  Pope  Joan  perished  misera- 
bly. At  last  Fortune,  as  if  to  make  amends  for  her  un- 
kindness,  sent  to  Greta  Hall  almost  together  the  never-to- 
be-enough-praised  Rumpelstilzchen  (afterwards  raised  for 
services  against  rats  to  be  His  Serene  Highness  the  Arch- 
duke Rumpelstilzchen),  and  the  equally-to-be-praised  Hur- 
ly-burlybuss.  With  whom  too  soon  we  must  close  the 
catalogue. 

The  revenue  to  maintain  this  household  was  in  the  main 
won  by  Southey's  pen.  "  It  is  a  difficult  as  well  as  a  deli- 
cate task,"  he  wrote  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  "  to  advise  a 
youth  of  ardent  mind  and  aspiring  thoughts  in  the  choice 
of  a  profession  ;  but  a  wise  man  will  have  no  hesitation  in 
exhorting  him  to  choose  anything  rather  than  literature. 
Better  that  he  should  seek  his  fortune  before  the  mast,  or 
with  a  musket  on  his  shoulder  and  a  knapsack  on  his  back  ; 
better  that  he  should  follow  the  plough,  or  work  at  the 
loom  or  the  lathe,  or  sweat  over  the  anvil,  than  trust  to  lit- 
erature as  the  only  means  of  his  support."  Southey's  own 
bent  towards  literature  was  too  strong  to  be  altered.  But, 
while  he  accepted  loyally  the  burdens  of  his  profession  as 
a  man  of  letters,  he  knew  how  stout  a  back  is  needed  to 
bear  them  month  after  month  and  year  after  year.  Ab- 
solutely dependent  on  his  pen  he  was  at  no  time.  His 
generous  friend  Wynn,  upon  coming  of  age,  allowed  him 
annually  160^.,  until,  in  1807,  he  was  able  to  procure  for 
Southey  a  Government  pension  for  literary  services  amount- 


IV.]  WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  1803—1839.  97 

ing,  clear  of  taxes,  to  nearly  the  same  sum.  Southey  had 
as  truly  as  any  man  the  pride  of  independence,  but  he  had 
none  of  its  vanity ;  there  was  no  humiliation  in  accepting 
a  service  from  one  whom  friendship  had  made  as  close  as 
a  brother.  Men,  he  says,  are  as  much  better  for  the  good 
offices  which  they  receive  as  for  those  they  bestow ;  and  his 
own  was  no  niggard  hand.  Knowing  both  to  give  and 
to  take,  with  him  the  remembrance  that  he  owed  much  to 
others  was  among  the  precious  possessions  of  life  which 
bind  us  to  our  kind  with  bonds  of  sonship,  not  of  slavery. 
Of  the  many  kindnesses  which  he  received  he  never  forgot 
one.  "Had  it  not  been  for  your  aid,"  he  writes  to  Wynn, 
forty  years  after  their  first  meeting  in  Dean's  Yard,  "  I 
should  have  been  irretrievably  wrecked  when  I  ran  upon 
the  shoals,  with  all  sail  set,  in  the  very  outset  of  my  voy- 
age." And  to  another  good  old  friend,  who  from  his  own 
modest  station  applauded  while  Southey  ran  forward  in 
the  race  : — "  Do  you  suppose,  Cottle,  that  I  have  forgotten 
those  true  and  most  essential  acts  of  friendship  which  you 
showed  me  when  I  stood  most  in  need  of  them  ?  Your 
house  was  my  house  when  I  had  no  other.  The  very 
money  with  which  I  bought  ray  wedding-ring  and  paid  my 
marriage-fees  was  supplied  by  you.  It  was  with  your  sis- 
ters I  left  Edith  during  my  six  months'  absence,  and  for 
the  six  months  after  my  return  it  was  from  you  that  I 
received,  week  by  week,  the  little  on  which  we  lived,  till  I 
was  enabled  to  live  by  other  means.  It  is  not  the  settling 
of  a  cash  account  that  can  cancel  obligations  like  these. 
You  are  in  the  habit  of  preserving  your  letters,  and  if  you 
were  not,  I  would  entreat  you  to  preserve  this,  that  it  might 
be  seen  hereafter.  .  .  .  My  head  throbs  and  my  eyes  burn 
with  these  recollections.  Good-night !  my  dear  old  friend 
and  benefactor." 
5* 


98  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

Anxiety  about  his  worldly  fortunes  never  cost  Southey 
a  sleepless  night.  His  disposition  was  always  hopeful ; 
relying  on  Providence,  he  says,  I  couid  rely  upon  myself. 
When  he  had  little,  he  lived  upon  little,  never  spending 
when  it  was  necessary  to  spare ;  and  his  means  grew  with 
his  expenses.  Business  habits  he  had  none ;  never  in  his 
life  did  he  cast  up  an  account;  but  in  a  general  way  he 
knew  that  money  comes  by  honest  toil  and  grows  by  dili- 
gent husbandry.  Upon  Mrs.  Southey,  who  had  an  eye  to 
all  the  household  outgoings,  the  cares  of  this  life  fell  more 
heavily.  Sara  Coleridge  calls  to  mind  her  aunt  as  she 
moved  about  Greta  Hall  intent  on  house  affairs,  "  with  her 
fine  figure  and  quietly  commanding  air."  Alas !  under 
this  gracious  dignity  of  manner  the  wear  and  tear  of  life 
were  doing  their  work  surely.  Still,  it  was  honest  wear 
and  tear.  "  I  never  knew  her  to  do  an  unkind  act,"  says 
Southey,  "  nor  say  an  unkind  word ;"  but  when  stroke 
followed  upon  stroke  of  sorrow,  they  found  her  without 
that  elastic  temper  which  rises  and  recovers  itself.  Until 
the  saddest  of  afflictions  made  her  helpless,  everything  was 
left  to  her  management,  and  was  managed  so  quietly  and 
well,  that,  except  in  times  of  sickness  and  bereavement,  "  I 
had,"  writes  her  husband,  "  literally  no  cares."  Thus  free 
from  harass,  Southey  toiled  in  his  library ;  he  toiled  not 
for  bread  alone,  but  also  for  freedom.  There  were  great 
designs  before  him  which,  he  was  well  aware,  if  ever  real- 
ized, would  make  but  a  poor  return  to  the  household  cof- 
fer. To  gain  time  and  a  vantage-ground  for  these,  he  was 
content  to  yield  much  of  his  strength  to  work  of  tempo- 
rary value,  always  contriving,  however,  to  strike  a  mean  in 
this  journeyman  service  between  what  was  most  and  least 
akin  to  his  proper  pursuits.  When  a  parcel  of  books  ar- 
rived from  the  Annual  Review,  he  groaned  in  spirit  over 


IT.]  WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  1803—1839.  99 

the  sacrifice  of  time ;  but  patience !  it  is,  after  all,  better, 
he  would  reflect,  than  pleading  in  a  court  of  law  ;  better 
than  being  called  up  at  midnight  to  a  patient;  better 
than  calculating  profit  and  loss  at  a  counter;  better,  in 
short,  than  anything  but  independence.  "  I  am  a  quiet, 
patient,  easy-going  hack  of  the  mule  breed  " — he  writes  to 
Grosvenor  Bedford — "  regular  as  clock-work  in  my  pace, 
sure-footed,  bearing  the  burden  which  is  laid  on  me,  and 
only  obstinate  in  choosing  my  own  path.  If  Gifford 
could  see  me  by  this  fireside,  where,  like  Nicodemus,  one 
candle  suffices  me  in  a  large  room,  he  would  see  a  man  in 
a  coat '  still  more  threadbare  than  his  own,'  when  he  wrote 
his  '  Imitation,' working  hard  and  getting  little  —  a  bare 
maintenance,  and  hardly  that ;  writing  poems  and  history 
for  posterity  with  his  whole  heart  and  soul ;  one  daily 
progressive  in  learning,  not  so  learned  as  he  is  poor,  not 
so  poor  as  proud,  not  so  proud  as  happy.  Grosvenor, 
there  is  not  a  lighter-hearted  nor  a  happier  man  upon  the 
face  of  this  wide  world."  When  these  words  were  writ- 
ten, Herbert  stood  by  his  father's  side ;  it  was  sweet  to 
work  that  his  boy  might  have  his  play-time  glad  and  free. 
The  public  estimate  of  Southey's  works  as  expressed  in 
pounds,  shillings,  and  pence,  was  lowest  where  he  held  that 
it  ought  to  have  been  highest.  For  the  History  of  Brazil, 
a  work  of  stupendous  toil,  which  no  one  in  England  could 
have  produced  save  Southey  himself,  he  had  not  received, 
after  eight  years,  as  much  as  for  a  single  article  in  the 
Quarterly  Review.  Madoc,  the  pillar,  as  he  supposed,  on 
which  his  poetical  fame  was  to  rest ;  Madoc,  which  he  dis' 
missed  with  an  awed  feeling,  as  if  in  it  he  were  parting 
with  a  great  fragment  of  his  life,  brought  its  author,  after 
twelve  months'  sales,  the  sum  of  31.  lis.  Id.  On  the  oth- 
er hand,  for  his  Naval  Bioyraiylty,  which  interested  him 


100  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

less  than  most  of  his  works,  and  which  was  undertaken 
after  hesitation,  he  was  promised  five  hundred  guineas  a 
volume.  Notwithstanding  his  unwearied  exertions,  his 
modest  scale  of  expenditure,  and  his  profitable  connexion 
with  the  Quarterly  Review — for  an  important  article  he 
would  receive  100^. — he  never  had  a  year's  income  in  ad- 
vance until  that  year,  late  in  his  life,  in  which  Sir  Robert 
Peel  offered  him  a  baronetcy.  In  1818,  the  lucky  pay- 
ment of  a  bad  debt  enabled  him  to  buy  300Z.  in  the 
Three-per-cents.  "  I  have  100^.  already  there,"  he  writes, 
"and  shall  then  be  worth  I2l.  per  annum."  By  1821 
this  sum  had  grown  to  625/.,  the  gatherings  of  half  a 
life-time.  In  that  year  his  friend  John  May,  whose  ac- 
quaintance he  had  made  in  Portugal,  and  to  whose  kind- 
ness he  was  a  debtor,  suffered  the  loss  of  his  fortune.  As 
soon  as  Southey  had  heard  the  state  of  affairs,  his  decision 
was  formed.  "  By  this  post,"  he  tells  his  friend,  "  I  write 
to  Bedford,  desiring  that  he  will  transfer  to  you  625/.  in 
the  Three-per-cents.  I  wish  it  was  more,  and  that  I  had 
more  at  my  command  in  any  way.  I  shall  in  the  spring, 
if  I,am  paid  for  the  first  volume  of  my  History  as  soon  as 
it  is  finished.  One  hundred  I  should,  at  all  events,  have 
sent  you  then.  It  shall  be  as  much  more  as  I  receive." 
And  he  goes  on  in  cheery  words  to  invite  John  May  to 
break  away  from  business  and  come  to  Keswick,  there  to 
lay  in  "  a  pleasant  store  of  recollections  which  in  all  moods 
of  mind  are  wholesome."  One  rejoices  that  Southey, 
poor  of  worldly  goods,  knew  the  happiness  of  being  so 
simply  and  nobly  generous. 

Blue  and  white  china,  mediaeval  ivories,  engravings  by 
the  Little  Masters,  Chippendale  cabinets,  did  not  excite 
pining  desire  in  Southey's  breast;  yet  in  one  direction 
he  indulged  the  passion  of  a  collector.     If,  with  respect  to 


IV.]  WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  1803—1839.  101 

any  of  "  the  things  independent  of  the  will,"  he  showed  a 
want  of  moderation  unworthy  of  his  discipleship  to  Epic- 
tetus,  it  was  assuredly  with  respect  to  books.  Before  he 
possessed  a  fixed  home,  he  was  already  moored  to  his  fo- 
lios; and  when  once  he  was  fairly  settled  at  Keswick, 
many  a  time  the  carriers  on  the  London  road  found  their 
lading  the  larger  by  a  weighty  packet  on  its  way  to  Greta 
Hall.  Never  did  he  run  north  or  south  for  a  holiday, 
but  the  inevitable  parcel  preceded  or  followed  his  return. 
Never  did  he  cross  to  the  Continent  but  a  bulkier  bale  ar- 
rived in  its  own  good  time,  enclosing  precious  things.  His 
morality,  in  all  else  void  of  offence,  here  yielded  to  the 
seducer.  It  is  thought  that  Southey  was  in  the  main  hon- 
est ;  but  if  Dirk  Hatteraick  had  run  ashore  a  hundred- 
weight of  the  Acta  Sanctorum  duty-free,  the  king's  laure- 
ate was  not  the  man  to  set  the  sharks  upon  him ;  and  it 
is  to  be  feared  that  the  pattern  of  probity,  the  virtuous 
Southey  himself,  might  in  such  circumstances  be  found, 
under  cover  of  night,  lugging  his  prize  landwards  from  its 
retreat  beneath  the  rocks.  Unquestionably,  at  one  time 
certain  parcels  from  Portugal  —  only  of  such  a  size  as 
could  be  carried  under  the  arm  —  were  silently  brought 
ashore  to  the  defrauding  of  the  revenue,  and  somehow 
found  their  way,  by-and-by,  to  Greta  Hall.  "We  main- 
tain a  trade,"  says  the  Governor  of  the  Strangers'  House 
in  Bacon's  philosophical  romance,  "  not  for  gold,  silver,  or 
jewels,  nor  for  silks,  nor  for  spices,  nor  any  other  com- 
modity of  matter,  but  only  for  God's  first  creature,  which 
was  Ughty  Such,  too,  was  Southey's  trade,  and  Ike  held 
that  God's  first  creature  is  free  to  travel  unchallenged  by 
revenue-cutter. 

"  Why,  Montesinos,"  asks  the  ghostly  Sir  Tlioiuas  More 
in  one  of  Southey's  Colloquies^  "  with  these  books  and  the 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ZMmSk 


102  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

delight  you  take  in  their  constant  society,  what  have  you 
to  covet  or  desire  ?"  "  Nothing,"  is  the  answer,  "...  ex- 
cept more  books."  When  Southey,  in  1805,  went  to  see 
Walter  Scott,  it  occurred  to  him  in  Edinburgh  that,  having 
had  neither  new  coat  nor  hat  since  little  Edith  was  born, 
he  must  surely  be  in  want  of  both  ;  and  here,  in  the  me- 
tropolis of  the  North,  was  an  opportunity  of  arraying  him- 
self to  his  desire.  "  Howbeit,"  he  says,  "  on  considering 
the  really  respectable  appearance  which  my  old  ones  made 
for  a  traveller  —  and  considering,  moreover,  that  as  learn- 
ing was  better  than  house  or  land,  it  certainly  must  be 
much  better  than  fine  clothes — I  laid  out  all  my  money 
in  books,  and  came  home  to  wear  out  my  old  wardrobe 
in  the  winter."  De  Quincey  called  Southey's  library  his 
wife,  and  in  a  certain  sense  it  was  wife  and  mistress  and 
mother  to  him.  The  presence  and  enjoying  of  his  books 
was  not  the  sole  delight  they  afforded ;  there  was  also  the 
pursuit,  the  surprisal,  the  love-making  or  wooing.  And  at 
last,  in  his  hours  of  weakness,  once  more  a  little  child,  he 
would  walk  slowly  round  his  library,  looking  at  his  cher- 
ished volumes,  taking  them  down  mechanically,  and  when 
he  could  no  longer  read,  pressing  them  to  his  lips.  In 
happier  days  the  book-stalls  of  London  knew  the  tall  fig- 
ure, the  rapid  stride,  the  quick-seeing  eye,  the  eager  fin- 
gers. Lisbon,  Paris,  Milan,  Amsterdam,  contributed  to 
the  rich  confusion  that,  from  time  to  time,  burdened  the 
floors  of  library  and  bedrooms  and  passages  in  Greta  Hall. 
Above  all,  he  was  remembered  at  Brussels  by  that  best 
of  bookmen,  Verbeyst.  What  mattered  it  that  Verbeyst 
was  a  sloven,  now  receiving  his  clients  with  gaping  shirt, 
and  now  with  stockingless  feet?  Did  he  not  duly  hon- 
our letters,  and  had  he  not  300,000  volumes  from  which 
to  choose?     If  in  a  moment  of  prudential  weakness  one 


XT.]  WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  1803—1839.  108 

failed  to  carry  off  such  a  treasure  as  the  Monumenta  Boi- 
ca  or  Colgar's  Irish  Saints,  there  was  a  chance  that  in 
Verbeyst's  vast  store-house  the  volume  might  lurk  for  a 
year  or  two.  And  Verbeyst  loved  his  books,  only  less 
than  he  loved  his  handsome,  good-natured  wife,  who  for 
a  liberal  customer  would  fetch  the  bread  and  burgundy. 
Henry  Taylor  dwelt  in  Robert  Southey's  heart  of  hearts ; 
but  let  not  Henry  Taylor  treasonably  hint  that  Verbeyst, 
the  prince  of  booksellers,  had  not  a  prince's  politeness  of 
punctuality.  If  sundry  books  promised  had  not  arrived, 
it  was  because  they  were  not  easily  procured ;  moreover, 
the  good-natured  wife  had  died  —  bien  des  malheurs,  and 
Verbeyst's  heart  was  fallen  into  a  lethai'gy.  "  Think  ill  of 
our  fathers  which  are  in  the  Row,  think  ill  of  John  Mur- 
ray, think  ill  of  Colburn,  think  ill  of  the  whole  race  of 
bibliopoles,  except  Verbeyst,  who  is  always  to  be  thought 
of  with  liking  and  respect."  And  when  the  bill  of  lading, 
coming  slow  but  sure,  announced  that  saints  and  chron- 
iclers and  poets  were  on  their  way,  "  by  this  day  month," 
wrote  Southey,  "  they  will  probably  be  here  ;  then  shall  I 
be  happier  than  if  his  Majesty  King  George  the  Fourth 
were  to  give  orders  that  I  should  be  clothed  in  purple,  and 
sleep  upon  gold,  and  have  a  chain  upon  my  neck,  and  sit 
next  him  because  of  my  wisdom,  and  be  called  his  cousin." 
Thus  the  four  thousand  volumes,  which  lay  piled  about 
the  library  when  Southey  first  gathered  his  possessions 
together,  grew  and  grew,  year  after  year,  until  the  grand 
total  mounted  up  to  eight,  to  ten,  to  fourteen  thousand. 
Now  Kirke  White's  brother  Neville  sends  him  a  gift  of 
Sir  William  Jones's  works,  thirteen  volumes,  in  binding 
of  bewildering  loveliness.  Now  Landor  ships  from  some 
Italian  port  a  chest  containing  treasures  of  less  dubious 
value  than  the  Raffaelles  and  Leonardos,  with  wliich  he  lib- 


104  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

erally  supplied  his  art -loving  friends.  Oh,  the  joy  of 
opening  such  a  chest ;  of  discovering  the  glorious  folios ; 
of  glancing  with  the  shy  amorousness  of  first  desire  at 
title-page  and  colophon  ;  of  growing  familiarity ;  of  trac- 
ing out  the  history  suggested  by  book-plate  or  autograph ; 
of  finding  a  lover's  excuses  for  cropped  margin,  or  water- 
stain,  or  worm-hole !  Then  the  calmer  happiness  of  ar- 
ranging his  favourites  on  new  shelves ;  of  taking  them 
down  again,  after  supper,  in  the  season  of  meditation  and 
currant-rum ;  and  of  wondering  for  which  among  his  fa- 
ther's books  Herbert  will  care  most  when  all  of  them  shall 
be  his  own.  "  It  would  please  you,"  Southey  writes  to  his 
old  comrade,  Bedford,  "  to  see  such  a  display  of  literary 
wealth,  which  is  at  once  the  pride  of  my  eye,  and  the  joy 
of  ray  heart,  and  the  food  of  my  mind ;  indeed,  more  than 
metaphorically,  meat,  drink,  and  clothes  for  me  and  mine. 
I  verily  believe  that  no  one  in  my  station  was  ever  so  rich 
before,  and  I  am  very  sure  that  no  one  in  any  station  had 
ever  a  more  thorough  enjoyment  of  riches  of  any  kind  or 
in  any  way." 

Southey's  Spanish  and  Portuguese  collection — if  Heber's 
great  library  be  set  aside — was  probably  the  most  remark- 
able gathering  of  such  books  in  the  possession  of  any 
private  person  in  this  country.  It  included  several  man- 
uscripts, some  of  which  were  displayed  with  due  distinc- 
tion upon  brackets.  Books  in  white  and  gold — vellum  or 
parchment  bound,  with  gilt  lettering  in  the  old  English 
type  which  Southey  loved — were  arranged  in  effective  po- 
sitions pyramid -wise.  Southey  himself  had  learned  the 
mystery  of  book-binding,  and  from  him  his  daughters  ac- 
quired that  art ;  the  ragged  volumes  were  decently  clothed 
in  coloured  cotton  prints ;  these,  presenting  a  strange 
patch -work  of  colours,  quite  filled  one  room,  which  was 


IT.]  WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  1803—1839.  105 

known  as  the  Cottonian  Library,  "  Paul,"  a  book-room  on 
the  ground-floor,  had  been  so  called  because  "  Peter,"  the 
organ-room,  was  robbed  -to  fit  it  with  books.  "  Paul  is 
a  great  comfort  to  us,  and  being  dressed  up  with  Peter's 
property,  makes  a  most  respectable  appearance,  and  receives 
that  attention  which  is  generally  shown  to  the  youngest 
child.  The  study  has  not  actually  been  Petered  on  Paul's 
account,  but  there  has  been  an  exchange  negotiated  which 
we  think  is  for  their  mutual  advantage.  Twenty  gilt  vol- 
umes, from  under  the  '  Beauties  of  England  and  Wales,' 
have  been  marched  down -stairs  rank  and  file,  and  their 
place  supplied  by  the  long  set  of  Lope  de  Vega  with  green 
backs." 

Southey's  books,  as  he  assures  his  ghostly  monitor  in 
the  Colloquies^  were  not  drawn  up  on  his  shelves  for  dis- 
play, however  much  the  pride  of  the  eye  might  be  gratified 
in  beholding  them ;  they  were  on  actual  service.  Gener- 
ations might  pass  away  before  some  of  them  would  again 
find  a  reader ;  in  their  mountain  home  they  were  prized 
and  known  as  perhaps  they  never  had  been  known  before. 
Not  a  few  of  the  volumes  had  been  cast  up  from  the  wreck 
of  family  or  convent  libraries  during  the  Revolution. 
"Yonder  Acta  Sanctorum  belonged  to  the  Capuchines  at 
Ghent.  This  book  of  St.  Bridget's  Revelations,  in  which 
not  only  all  the  initial  letters  are  illuminated,  but  every 
capital  throughout  the  volume  was  coloured,  came  from 
the  Carmelite  Nunner}^  at  Bruges.  .  .  .  Here  are  books 
from  Colbert's  library  ;  here  others  from  the  Lamoignon 
one.  .  .  .  Yonder  Chronicle  History  of  King  D.  Manoel,  by 
Damiam  de  Goes ;  and  yonder  General  History  of  Spain, 
by  Esteban  de  Garibay,  are  signed  by  their  respective  au- 
thors. .  .  .  This  Copy  of  Casaubon's  Epistles  was  sent  to 
me  from  Florence  by  Walter  Landor.     He  had  perused  it 


106  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

carefully,  and  to  that  perusal  we  are  indebted  for  one  of 
the  most  pleasing  of  his  Conversations,  .  .  .  Here  is  a  book 
with  which  Lauderdale  amused  himself,  when  Cromwell 
kept  him  in  prison  in  Windsor  Castle.  .  .  .  Here  I  possess 
these  gathered  treasures  of  time,  the  harvest  of  many  gen- 
erations, laid  up  in  my  garners :  and  when  I  go  to  the 
window,  there  is  the  lake,  and  the  circle  of  the  mountains, 
and  the  illimitable  sky." 

Not  a  few  of  his  books  were  dead,  and  to  live  among 
these  was  like  living  among  the  tombs  ,•  "  Behold,  this  also 
is  vanity,"  Southey  makes  confession.  But  when  Sir  Thom- 
as questions,  "  Has  it  proved  to  you  '  vexation  of  spirit ' 
also?"  the  Cumberland  mountain-dweller  breaks  forth: 
"  Oh  no !  for  never  can  any  man's  life  have  been  passed 
more  in  accord  with  his  own  inclinations,  nor  more  an- 
swerably  to  his  desires.  Excepting  that  peace  which, 
through  God's  infinite  mercy,  is  derived  from  a  higher 
source,  it  is  to  literature,  humanly  speaking,  that  I  am  be- 
holden, not  only  for  the  means  of  subsistence,  but  for 
every  blessing  which  I  enjoy ;  health  of  mind  and  activity 
of  mind,  contentment,  cheerfulness,  continual  employment, 
and  therefore  continual  pleasure.  Suavissima  vita  indies 
sentire  se  feri  meliorem  ;  and  this,  as  Bacon  has  said  and 
Clarendon  repeated,  is  the  benefit  that  a  studious  man  en- 
joys in  retirement."  Such  a  grave  gladness  underlay  all 
Southey's  frolic  moods,  and  in  union  with  a  clear-sighted 
acceptance  of  the  conditions  of  human  happiness — its  in- 
evitable shocks,  its  transitory  nature  as  far  as  it  belongs  to 
man's  life  on  earth — made  up  part  of  his  habitual  temper. 

Southey  coursed  from  page  to  page  with  a  greyhound's 
speed ;  a  tiny  s  pencilled  in  the  margin  served  to  indicate 
what  might  be  required  for  future  use.  Neatness  he  had 
learnt  from  Miss  Tyler  long  ago ;  and  by  experience  he  ac- 


iv.]  WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  1803—1839.  107 

quired  liis  method.  On  a  slip  of  paper  wliicb  served  as 
marker  he  would  note  the  pages  to  which  he  needed  to  re- 
turn. In  the  course  of  a  few  hours  he  had  classified  and 
arranged  everything  in  a  book  which  it  was  likely  he 
would  ever  want.  A  reference  to  the  less  important  pas- 
sages sufficed;  those  of  special  interest  were  transcribed 
by  his  wife,  or  one  of  his  daughters,  or  more  frequently 
by  Southey  himself;  finally,  these  transcripts  were  brought 
together  in  packets  under  such  headings  as  would  make  it 
easy  to  discover  any  portion  of  their  contents. 

Such  was  his  ordinary  manner  of  eviscerating  an  author, 
but  it  was  otherwise  with  the  writers  of  his  affection.  On 
some — such  as  Jackson  and  Jeremy  Taylor — "  he  /ec^,"  as 
he  expressed  it,  "  slowly  and  carefully,  dwelling  on  the 
page,  and  taking  in  its  contents,  deeply  and  deliberately, 
like  an  epicure  with  his  wine  '  searching  the  subtle  fla- 
vour.'" Such  chosen  writers  remained  for  all  times  and 
seasons  faithful  and  cherished  friends : — 

"  With  them  I  take  delight  in  weal, 
And  seek  relief  in  woe ; 
And  while  I  understand  and  feel 

How  much  to  them  I  owe, 
My  cheeks  have  often  been  bedewed 
With  tears  of  thankful  gratitude." 

"  If  I  were  confined  to  a  score  of  English  books,"  says 
Southey,  "  Sir  Thomas  Browne  would,  I  think,  be  one  of 
them ;  nay,  probably  it  would  be  one  if  the  selection  were 
cut  down  to  twelve.  My  library,  if  reduced  to  those 
bounds,  would  consist  of  Shakspeare,  Chaucer,  Spenser, 
and  Milton ;  Jackson,  Jeremy  Taylor,  and  South ;  Isaac 
Walton,  Sidney's  Arcadia,  Fuller's  Church  History,  and 
Sir  Thomas  Browne ;  and  what  a  wealthy  and  well-stored 


108  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

mind  would  that  man  have,  what  an  inexhaustible  reser- 
voir, what  a  Bank  of  England  to  draw  upon  for  profitable 
thoughts  and  delightful  associations,  who  should  have  fed 
upon  them  1"  It  must  have  gone  hard  with  Southey,  in 
making  out  this  list,  to  exclude  Clarendon,  and  doubtless 
if  the  choice  were  not  limited  to  books  written  in  English, 
the  Utopia  would  have  urged  its  claim  to  admission.  With 
less  diflBculty  he  could  skip  the  whole  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  From  Samson  Agonistes  to  The  Task,  there  was 
no  English  poem  which  held  a  foremost  place  in  his  es- 
teem. Berkeley  and  Butler  he  valued  highly  ;  but  Robert 
South  seemed  to  him  the  last  of  the  race  of  the  giants. 
An  ancestral  connection  with  Locke  was  not  a  source  of 
pride  to  Southey ;  he  respected  neither  the  philosopher's 
politics  nor  his  metaphysics ;  still,  it  is  pleasant,  he  says,  to 
hear  of  somebody  between  one's  self  and  Adam  who  has 
left  a  name. 

Four  volumes  of  what  are  called  Southey's  Common- 
place Books  have  been  published,  containing  some  three 
thousand  double-column  pages;  and  these  are  but  a  selec- 
tion from  the  total  mass  of  his  transcripts.  It  is  impossi- 
ble to  give  a  notion  of  a  miscellany  drawn  from  so  wide- 
ranging  a  survey  of  poetry,  biography,  history,  travels,  to- 
pography, divinity,  not  in  English  alone,  but  also  in  Latin, 
French,  Italian,  Spanish,  Portuguese.  Yet  certain  main 
lines  can  be  traced  which  give  some  meaning  to  this  huge 
accumulation.  It  is  easy  to  perceive  that  the  collector 
wrought  under  an  historical  bias,  and  that  social,  literary, 
and  ecclesiastical  history  were  the  directions  in  which  the 
historical  tendency  found  its  play.  Such  work  of  tran- 
scribing, though  it  did  not  rest  Southey's  hand,  was  a  re- 
lief to  his  mind  after  the  excitement  of  composition,  and 
some  of  it  may  pass  for  a  kind  of  busy  idleness ;  but  most 


IT.]  WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  1803—1839.  109 

of  his  transcripts  were  made  with  a  definite  purpose — that 
of  furnishing  materials  for  work  either  actually  accomplish- 
ed or  still  in  prospect,  when  at  last  the  brain  grew  dull 
and  the  fingers  slack.  "  I  am  for  ever  making  collections," 
he  writes,  "  and  storing  up  materials  which  may  not  comd 
into  use  till  the  Greek  Calends.  And  this  I  have  been  do-' 
ing  for  five-and-twenty  years !  It  is  true  that  I  draw  daily 
upon  my  hoards,  and  should  be  poor  without  them ;  but 
in  prudence  I  ought  now  to  be  working  up  those  materials 
rather  than  adding  to  so  much  dead  stock."  When  Tick-- 
nor  visited  him  in  1819,  Southey  opened  for  the  young 
American  his  great  bundles  of  manuscript  materials  for  the 
History  of  Portugal,  and  the  History  of  the  Portuguese 
East  Indies.  Southey  had  charmed  him  by  the  kindness 
of  his  reception ;  by  the  air  of  culture  and  of  goodness  in 
his  home  ;  by  his  talk,  bright  and  eager,  "  for  the  quickness 
of  his  mind  expresses  itself  in  the  fluency  of  his  utterance ; 
and  yet  he  is  ready  upon  almost  any  subject  that  can  be 
proposed  to  him,  from  the  extent  of  his  knowledge."  And 
now,  when  Ticknor  saw  spread  before  him  the  evidence 
of  such  unexampled  industry,  a  kind  of  bewilderment  took 
possession  of  him.  "  Southey,"  he  writes  in  his  diary,  "  is 
certainly  an  extraordinary  man,  one  of  those  whose  char- 
acters I  find  it  diflBcult  to  comprehend,  because  I  hardly 
know  how  such  elements  can  be  brought  together,  such  ra- 
pidity of  mind  with  such  patient  labour  and  wearisome  ex- 
actness, so  mild  a  disposition  with  so  much  nervous  excita- 
bility, and  a  poetical  talent  so  elevated  with  such  an  im- 
mense mass  of  minute,  dull  learning." 

If  Ticknor  had  been  told  that  this  was  due  to  Epictetus, 
it  might  have  puzzled  him  still  more ;  but  it  is  certain  that 
only  through  the  strenuous  appliance  of  will  to  the  forma- 
tion of  character  could  Southey  have  grown  to  be  what  he 


110  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

was.  He  liad  early  been  possessed  by  the  belief  that  lie 
must  not  permit  himself  to  become  the  slave  or  the  victim 
of  sensibility,  but  that  in  the  little  world  of  man  there  are 
two  powers  ruling  by  a  Divine  right  —  reason  and  con- 
science, in  loyal  obedience  to  which  lies  our  highest  free- 
dom. Then,  too,  the  circumstances  of  his  life  prompted 
him  to  self-mastery  and  self-management.  That  he  should 
every  day  overtake  a  vast  amount  of  work,  was  not  left  to 
his  choosing  or  declining — it  was  a  matter  of  necessity ;  to 
accomplish  this,  he  must  get  all  possible  advantage  out  of 
his  rapidity  of  intellect  and  his  energy  of  feeling,  and  at 
the  same  time  he  must  never  put  an  injurious  strain  on 
these.  It  would  not  do  for  Southey  to  burn  away  to-day 
in  some  white  flame  of  excitement  the  nerve  which  he 
needed  for  use  to-morrow.  He  could  not  afford  to  pass 
a  sleepless  night.  If  his  face  glowed  or  his  brain  throb- 
bed, it  was  a  warning  that  he  had  gone  far  enough.  His 
very  susceptibility  to  nervous  excitement  rendered  caution 
the  more  requisite.  William  Taylor  had  compared  him 
to  the  mimosa.  Hazlitt  remembered  him  with  a  quiver- 
ing lip,  a  hectic  flush  upon  his  cheek,  a  roving  fire  in  his 
eye,  a  falcon  glance,  a  look  at  once  aspiring  and  dejected. 
Crabb  Kobinson  found  in  him  a  likeness  to  Shelley. 
Humphry  Davy  had  proved  the  fineness  of  his  sensibility 
by  that  odd  neurometer,  the  nitrous  oxide.  "  The  truth 
is,"  writes  Southey, "  that  though  some  persons,  whose 
knowledge  of  me  is  scarcely  skin-deep,  suppose  I  have  no 
nerves,  because  I  have  great  self-control  as  far  as  regards 
the  surface,  if  it  were  not  for  great  self-management,  and 
what  may  be  called  a  strict  intellectual  regimen,  I  should 
very  soon  be  in  a  deplorable  state  of  what  is  called  nervous 
disease,  and  this  would  have  been  the  case  any  time  during 
the  last  twenty  years."     And  again  :  "  A  man  had  better 


IV.]  WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  1803—1830.  Ill 

break  a  bone,  or  even  lose  a  limb,  than  sliake  hi.s  nervous  sys- 
tem. I,  who  never  talk  about  my  nerves  (and  am  supposed 
to  have  none  by  persons  who  see  as  far  into  me  as  they  do 
into  a  stone  wall),  know  this."  Southey  could  not  afford 
to  play  away  his  health  at  hazard,  and  then  win  it  back  in 
the  lounge  of  some  foreign  watering-place.  His  plan,  on 
the  contrary,  was  to  keep  it,  and  to  think  about  it  as  little 
as  possible.  A  single  prescription  suflSced  for  a  life-time 
— In  labore  quies.  "  I  think  I  may  lay  claim,"  he  says, 
"  to  the  praise  of  self-management  both  in  body  and  mind 
without  paying  too  much  attention  to  either — exercising  a 
diseased  watchfulness,  or  playing  any  tricks  with  either." 
It  would  not  have  been  difficult  for  Southey,  with  such  a 
temperament  as  his,  to  have  wrecked  himself  at  the  outset 
of  his  career.  With  beautiful  foiled  lives  of  young  men 
Southey  had  a  peculiar  sympathy.  But  the  gods  some- 
times give  white  hairs  as  an  aureole  to  their  favoured 
ones.  Perhaps,  on  the  whole,  for  him  it  was  not  only 
more  prudent  but  also  more  chivalrous  to  study  to  be 
quiet ;  to  create  a  home  for  those  who  looked  to  him  for 
security ;  to  guard  the  happiness  of  tender  women ;  to 
make  smooth  ways  for  the  feet  of  little  children ;  to  hold 
hands  in  old  age  with  the  friends  of  his  youth;  to  store 
his  mind  with  treasures  of  knowledge ;  to  strengthen  and 
chasten  his  own  heart ;  to  grow  yearly  in  love  for  his 
country  and  her  venerable  heritage  of  manners,  virtue, 
laws ;  to  add  to  her  literature  the  outcome  of  an  adult  in- 
tellect and  character ;  and  having  fought  a  strenuous  and 
skilful  fight,  to  fall  as  one  whose  sword  an  untimely  stroke 
has  shattered  in  his  hand. 


CHAPTER  V. 

WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  1803 — 1839  {continued). 

The  texture  of  Southey's  life  was  so  uniform,  the  round 
from  morning  till  night  repeated  itself  with  so  much  reg- 
ularity, that  one  day  may  stand  as  representative  of  a 
thousand.  We  possess  his  record  of  how  the  waking 
hours  went  by  when  he  was  about  thirty  years  old,  and 
a  similar  record  written  when  he  was  twice  that  age.  His 
surroundings  had  changed  in  the  mean  time,  and  he  him- 
self had  changed ;  the  great  bare  room  which  he  used 
from  the  first  as  a  study,  fresh  plastered  in  1 804,  with  the 
trowel-lines  on  the  ceiling  pierced  by  the  flaws  of  winter, 
containing  two  chairs  and  a  little  table — "  God  help  me  !" 
he  exclaims,  "  I  look  in  it  like  a  cock-robin  in  a  church  " 
— this  room  had  received,  long  before  1834,  its  lining  of 
comely  books,  its  white  and  gold  pyramids,  its  brackets, 
its  cherished  portraits.  The  occupant  of  the  study  had 
the  same  spare  frame,  the  same  aspect  of  lightness  and  of 
strength,  the  same  full  eyebrows  shadowing  the  dark- 
brown  eyes,  the  same  variously  expressive  muscular  mouth ; 
the  youthful  wildness  in  his  countenance  had  given  place 
to  a  thoughtful  expression,  and  the  abundant  hair  still 
clustering  over  his  great  brow  was  snowy  white.  What- 
ever had  changed,  his  habits — though  never  his  tyrants — 
remained,  with  some  variations  in  detail,  the  same.     "  My 


CHAP.T.]     WAYS  OF  LITE  AT  KESWICK,  1803— 1839.  113 

actions,"  he  writes  to  a  friend  not  very  long  after  his  ar- 
rival in  Keswick,  "  are  as  regular  as  those  of  St.  Dunstan's 
quarter  -  boys.  Three  pages  of  history  after  breakfast 
(equivalent  to  five  in  small  quarto  printing);  then  to 
transcribe  and  copy  for  the  press,  or  to  make  my  selec- 
tions and  biographies,  or  what  else  suits  my  humour  till 
dinner-time ;  from  dinner  to  tea  I  read,  write  letters,  see 
the  newspaper,  and  very  often  indulge  in  a  siesta — for 
sleep  agrees  with  me.  .  .  .  After  tea  I  go  to  poetry,  and 
correct,  and  rewrite,  and  copy  till  I  am  tired,  and  then 
turn  to  anything  else  till  supper;  and  this  is  my  life — 
which,  if  it  be  not  a  very  merry  one,  is  yet  as  happy  as 
heart  could  wish,"  "  See  how  the  day  is  disposed  of !" 
begins  the  later  record ;  "  I  get  out  of  bed  as  the  clock 
strikes  six,  and  shut  the  house-door  after  me  as  it  strikes 
seven.'  After  two  hours  with  Davies,  home  to  breakfast, 
after  which  Cuthbert  engages  me  till  about  half-past  ten, 
and  when  the  post  brings  no  letters  that  either  interest 
or  trouble  me  (for  of  the  latter  I  have  many),  by  eleven  I 
have  done  with  the  newspaper,  and  can  then  set  about 
what  is  properly  the  business  of  the  day.  But  letters 
are  often  to  be  written,  and  I  am  liable  to  frequent  inter- 
ruptions ;  so  that  there  are  not  many  mornings  in  which 
I  can  command  from  two  to  three  unbroken  hours  at  the 
desk.  At  two  I  take  my  daily  walk,  be  the  weather  what 
it  may,  and  when  the  weather  permits,  with  a  book  in  my 
hand ;  dinner  at  four,  read  about  half  an  hour  ;  then  take 
to  the  sofa  with  a  different  book,  and  after  a  few  pages 
get  my  soundest  sleep,  till  summoned  to  tea  at  six.  My 
best  time  during  the  winter  is  by  candle-light;  twilight 

'  7.  e.,  to  go  to  Davies'  lodgings ;  Davies,  Dr.  Bell's  Secretary,  was 
engaged  in  arranging  a  vast  accumulation  of  papers  with  a  view  to 
forwarding  Southey  in  his  Life  of  Bell. 
6 


114  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

interferes  with  it  a  little ;  and  in  the  season  of  companj 
I  can  never  count  upon  an  evening's  work.  Supper  at 
half -past  nine,  after  which  I  read  an  hour,  and  then  to 
bed.  The  greatest  part  of  my  miscellaneous  work  is  done 
in  the  odds  and  ends  of  time." 

It  was  part  of  Southey's  regimen  to  carry  on  several 
works  at  once ;  this  he  found  to  be  economy  of  time,  and 
he  believed  it  necessary  for  the  preservation  of  his  health. 
"Whenever  one  object  entirely  occupied  his  attention,  it 
haunted  him,  oppressed  him,  troubled  his  dreams.  The 
remedy  was  simple — to  do  one  thing  in  the  morning,  an- 
other in  the  evening.  To  lay  down  poetry  and  presently 
to  attack  history  seems  feasible,  and  no  ill  policy  for  one 
who  is  forced  to  take  all  he  can  out  of  himself ;  but 
Southey  would  turn  from  one  poetical  theme  to  another, 
and  could  day  by  day  advance  with  a  pair  of  epics.  This 
was  a  source  of  unfailing  wonder  to  Landor.  "  When  I 
write  a  poem,"  he  says,  "my  heart  and  all  my  feelings  are 
upon  it.  .  .  .  High  poems  will  not  admit  flirtation."  Lit- 
tle by  little  was  Southey's  way,  and  so  he  got  on  with 
many  things.  "  Last  night,"  he  writes  to  Bedford,  "  I  be- 
gan the  Preface  [to  Specimens  of  English  Poets^  —  huz- 
za !  And  now,  Grosvenor,  let  me  tell  you  what  I  have  to 
do.  I  am  writing — 1.  Tlce  History  of  Portugal ;  2.  The 
Chronicle  of  the  Cid ;  3.  The  Curse  of  Kehama ;  4.  Es- 
priella's  Letters.  Look  you,  all  these  /  am  writing.  .  .  . 
By  way  of  interlude  comes  in  this  preface.  Don't  swear, 
and  bid  me  do  one  thing  at  a  time.  I  tell  you  I  can't 
afford  to  do  one  thing  at  a  time — no,  nor  two  neither; 
and  it  is  only  by  doing  many  things  that  I  contrive  to  do 
so  much :  for  I  cannot  work  long  together  at  anything 
without  hurting  myself,  and  so  I  do  everything  by  heats ; 
then,  by  the  time  I  am  tired  of  one,  my  inclination  for 


T.]  WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  1803—1839.  115 

another  is  come  round."  A  strong,  deliberate  energy,  ac- 
cordingly, is  at  the  back  of  all  Southey's  work ;  but  not 
that  blind  creative  rapture  which  will  have  its  own  way, 
and  leaves  its  subject  weak  but  appeased.  "  In  the  day- 
time I  laboured,"  says  Landor,  "  and  at  night  unburdened 
my  soul,  shedding  many  tears.  My  Tiberius  has  so  shaken 
me  at  last  that  tbe  least  thing  affects  me  violently." 
Southey  shrank  back  from  such  agitations.  A  great  Eliz- 
abethan poet  is  described  by  one  of  his  contemporaries  as 
one  standing 

"  Up  to  the  chin  in  the  Pierian  flood." 

Southey  did  not  wade  so  far ;  he  stepped  down  calmly 
until  the  smooth  waters  touched  his  waist ;  dipped  seven 
times,  and  returned  to  the  bank.  It  was  a  beautiful  and 
an  elevating  rite ;  but  the  waves  sing  with  lyric  lips  only 
in  the  midmost  stream ;  and  he  who  sings  with  them,  and 
as  swift  as  they,  need  not  wonder  if  he  sink  after  a  time, 
faint,  breathless,  delighted. 

Authorship,  it  must  be  remembered,  was  Southey's  trade, 
the  business  of  his  life,  and  this,  at  least,  he  knew  how  to 
conduct  well.  To  be  a  prophet  and  call  down  flame  from 
heaven,  and  disappear  in  a  whirlwind  and  a  chariot  of  fire, 
is  sublime ;  but  prophets  can  go  in  the  strength  of  a  sin- 
gle meal  for  more  days  and  nights  than  one  would  choose 
to  name  in  this  incredulous  age,  and,  if  they  eat,  there  are 
ravens  to  bring  them  food.  No  ravens  brought  loaves  to 
Greta  Hall;  and  Southey  had  an  unprophet-like  craving 
for  the  creature  comforts  of  beef  and  bread,  for  wine  if  it 
might  be  had,  and  at  supper  for  one  meditative  tumbler 
of  punch  or  black-currant  rum.  Besides,  what  ravens 
were  ever  pledged  to  feed  a  prophet's  sisters-in-law,  or  his 
nephews  and  nieces  ?     Let  it  be  praise  enough  for  much 


116  SOUTHEY.  [OHAP. 

of  Southey's  performance  that  he  did  good  work  in  work- 
manlike fashion.  To  shift  knowledge  into  more  conven- 
ient positions  is  to  render  no  unimportant  service  to  man- 
kind. In  the  gathering  of  facts,  Southey  was  both  swift 
and  patient  in  an  extraordinary  degree  ;  he  went  often 
alone,  and  he  went  far;  in  the  art  of  exposition  he  was 
unsurpassed ;  and  his  fine  moral  feeling  and  profound 
sympathy  with  elementary  justice  created,  as  De  Quincey 
has  observed,  a  soul  under  what  else  might  well  be  denom- 
inated, Miltonically,  "  the  ribs  of  death."  From  the  mend- 
ing of  his  pens  to  the  second  reading  aloud  of  his  proof- 
sheets,  attending  as  he  read  to  the  fall  of  each  word  upon 
the  ear,  Southey  had  a  diligent  care  for  everything  that 
served  to  make  his  work  right.  He  wrote  at  a  moderate 
pace;  re-wrote;  wrote  a  third  time  if  it  seemed  desirable; 
corrected  with  minute  supervision.  He  accomplished  so 
much,  not  because  he  produced  with  unexampled  rapidity, 
but  because  he  worked  regularly,  and  never  fell  into  a 
mood  of  apathy  or  ennui.  No  periods  of  tempestuous 
vacancy  lay  between  his  periods  of  patient  labour.  One 
work  always  overlapped  another — thus,  that  first  idle  day, 
the  begetter  of  so  many  idle  descendants,  never  came. 
But  let  us  hear  the  craftsman  giving  a  lesson  in  the  knack 
of  authorship  to  his  brother.  Dr.  Henry  Southey,  who  has 
a  notion  of  writing  something  on  the  Crusades : 

"  Now  then,  supposing  that  you  will  seriously  set  about 
the  Crusades,  I  will  give  you  such  directions  in  the  art  of  his- 
torical book-keeping  as  may  save  time  and  facilitate  labour. 

"  Make  your  writing-books  in  foolscap  quarto,  and  write 
on  only  one  side  of  a  leaf;  draw  a  line  down  the  margin, 
marking  oif  space  enough  for  your  references,  which  should 
be  given  at  the  end  of  every  paragraph ;  noting  page,  book, 
or  chapter  of  the  author  referred  to.     This  minuteness  is  now 


v.]  WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  1803— 1839-  117 

demanded,  and  you  will  yourself  find  it  useful ;  for,  in  tran- 
scribing or  in  correcting  proofs,  it  is  often  requisite  to  turn  to 
the  original  authorities.  Take  the  best  author;  that  is  to 
say,  the  one  that  has  written  most  at  length  of  all  the  original 
authors,  upon  the  particular  point  of  time  on  which  you  are 
employed,  and  draw  up  your  account  from  him ;  then,  on  the 
opposite  page,  correct  and  amplify  this  from  every  other  who 
has  written  on  the  same  subject.  This  page  should  be  di- 
vided into  two  columns,  one  of  about  two-thirds  of  its  breadth, 
the  other  the  remaining  one.  You  are  thus  enabled  to  add 
to  your  additions. 

"  One  of  these  books  you  should  have  for  your  geography  ; 
that  is  to  say,  for  collecting  descriptions  of  all  the  principal 
scenes  of  action  (which  must  be  done  from  books  of  travels), 
their  situation,  their  strength,  their  previous  history,  and  in 
the  notes,  their  present  state.  [Another  book — he  adds  in  a 
subsequent  letter  —  you  must  keep  for  the  bibliography  of 
your  subject.] 

"  These  descriptions  you  can  insert  in  their  proper  places 
when  you  transcribe.  Thus,  also,  you  should  collect  accounts 
of  the  different  tribes  and  dynasties  which  you  have  occasion 
to  mention.  In  this  manner  the  information  which  is  only 
to  be  got  at  piecemeal,  and  oftentimes  incidentally,  when  you 
are  looking  for  something  else,  is  brought  together  with  least 
trouble,  and  almost  imperceptibly. 

"All  relative  matter  not  absolutely  essential  to  the  subject 
should  go  in  the  form  of  supplementary  notes,  and  these  you 
may  make  as  amusing  as  you  please,  the  more  so,  and  the 
more  curious,  the  better.  Much  trouble  is  saved  by  writing 
them  on  separate  bits  of  paper,  each  the  half  of  a  quarter  of 
a  foolscap  sheet — numbering  them,  and  making  an  index  of 
them ;  in  this  manner  they  are  ready  for  use  when  they  are 
wanted. 

"  It  was  some  time  before  I  fell  unto  this  system  of  book- 
keeping, and  I  believe  no  better  can  be  desired.  A  Welsh 
triad  might  comprehend  all  the  rules  of  style.     Say  what  you 


118  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

have  to  say  as  perspicuously  as  possible,  as  hriejiy  as  possible, 
and  as  rememberably  as  possible,  and  take  no  other  thought 
about  it.  Omit  none  of  those  little  circumstances  which 
give  life  to  narration,  and  bring  old  manners,  old  feelings, 
and  old  times  before  your  eyes." 

Winter  was  Southey's  harvest  season.  Then  for  weeks 
no  visitor  knocked  at  Greta  Hall,  except  perhaps  Mr. 
Wordsworth,  who  had  plodded  all  the  way  from  Rydal  on 
his  indefatigable  legs.  But  in  summer  interruptions  were 
frequent,  and  Southey,  who  had  time  for  everything,  had 
time  to  spare  not  only  for  friends  but  for  strangers.  The 
swarm  of  lakers  was,  indeed,  not  what  it  is  now-a-days,  but 
to  a  studious  man  it  was,  perhaps,  not  less  formidable.  By 
Gray's  time  the  secret  of  the  lakes  had  been  found  out; 
and  if  the  visitors  were  fewer,  they  were  less  swift  upon 
the  wing,  and  their  rank  or  fame  often  entitled  them  to 
particular  attention.  Coroneted  coaches  rolled  into  Kes- 
wick, luggage-laden ;  the  American  arrived  sometimes  to 
make  sure  that  Derwentwater  would  not  be  missed  out  of 
Lake  Michigan,  sometimes  to  see  King  George's  laureate ; 
and  cultured  Americans  were  particularly  welcome  to 
Southey.  Long-vacation  reading-parties  from  Oxford  and 
Cambridge — known  among  the  good  Cumberland  folk  as 
the  "cathedrals"  —  made  Keswick  a  resort.  Well  for 
them  if,  provided  with  an  introduction,  they  were  invited 
to  dine  at  Greta  Hall,  were  permitted  to  gaze  on  the 
choice  old  Spaniards,  and  to  converse  with  the  laureate's 
stately  Edith  and  her  learned  cousin.  Woe  to  them  if, 
after  the  entanglements  of  a  Greek  chorus  or  descriptions 
of  the  temperate  man  and  the  magnanimous  man,  they 
sought  to  restore  their  tone  by  a  cat-worrying  expedition 
among  the  cottages  of  Keswick.  Southey's  cheek  glowed, 
his  eye  darkened  and  flashed,  if  he  chanced  to  witness  cru- 


v.]  WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  1803—1839.  11» 

elty  ;  some  of  the  Cambridge  "  cathedrals  "  who  received 
a  letter  concerning  cats  in  July,  1834,  may  still  bear  the 
mark  of  its  leaded  thong  in  their  moral  fibre,  and  be  the 
better  for  possessing  Southey's  sign-manual. 

A  young  step-child  of  Oxford  visited  Keswick  in  the 
winter  of  1811-12,  and  sought  the  acquaintance  of  the 
author  of  Thalaba.  Had  Southey  been  as  intolerant  or 
as  unsympathetic  as  some  have  represented  him,  he  could 
not  have  endured  the  society  of  one  so  alien  in  opinion 
and  so  outspoken  as  Shelley.  But  courtesy,  if  it  were 
nothing  more,  was  at  least  part  of  Southey's  self-respect ; 
his  intolerance  towards  persons  was,  in  truth,  towards  a 
certain  ideal,  a  certain  group  of  opinions ;  when  hand 
touched  hand  and  eye  met  eye,  all  intolerance  vanished, 
and  he  was  open  to  every  gracious  attraction  of  character 
and  manner.  There  was  much  in  Shelley  that  could  not 
fail  to  interest  Southey ;  both  loved  poetry,  and  both  felt 
the  proud,  secluded  grandeur  of  Landor's  verse;  both  loved 
men,  and  thought  the  world  wants  mending,  though  their 
plans  of  reform  might  differ.  That  Shelley  was  a  rebel 
expelled  from  Oxford  did  not  shock  Southey,  who  him- 
self had  been  expelled  from  Westminster  and  rejected  at 
Christ  Church.  Shelley's  opinions  were  crude  and  violent, 
but  their  spirit  was  generous,  and  such  opinions  held  by 
a  youth  in  his  teens  generally  mean  no  more  than  that 
his  brain  is  working  and  his  heart  ardent.  Shelley's  rash 
marriage  reminded  Southey  of  another  marriage,  celebrated 
at  Bristol  some  fifteen  years  ago,  which  proved  that  rash- 
ness is  not  always  folly.  The  young  man's  admiration  of 
Thalaba  spoke  well  for  him ;  and  certainly  during  the 
earlier  weeks  of  their  intercourse  there  was  on  Shelley's 
part  a  becoming  deference  to  one  so  much  his  superior  in 
years  and  in  learning,  deference  to  one  who  had  achieved 


120  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

much  while  Shelley  still  only  dreamed  of  achievement. 
Southey  thought  he  saw  in  the  revolutionary  enthusiast 
an  image  of  his  former  self.  "  Here,"  he  says,  "  is  a  man 
at  Keswick  who  acts  upon  me  as  my  own  ghost  would  do. 
He  is  just  what  I  was  in  1794.  His  name  is  Shelley,  son 
to  the  member  for  Shoreham.  ...  At  present  he  has  got 
to  the  Pantheistic  stage  of  philosophy,  and  in  the  course 
of  a  week  I  expect  he  will  be  a  Berkeleyan,  for  I  have  put 
him  upon  a  course  of  Berkeley.  It  has  surprised  him  a 
good  deal  to  meet,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  with  a  man 
who  perfectly  understands  him  and  does  him  full  justice. 
I  tell  him  that  all  the  difference  between  us  is  that  he  is 
nineteen  and  I  am  thirty-seven ;  and  I  daresay  it  will  not 
be  very  long  before  I  shall  succeed  in  convincing  him  that 
he  may  be  a  true  philosopher  and  do  a  great  deal  of  good 
with  6000/.  a  year ;  the  thought  of  which  troubles  him  a 
great  deal  more  at  present  than  ever  the  want  of  sixpence 
(for  I  have  known  such  a  want)  did  me,"  There  were 
other  differences  between  Robert  Southey  and  the  incon- 
stant star  that  passed  by  Greta  Hall  than  that  of  years. 
Southey  had  quickly  learned  to  put  a  bound  to  his  desires, 
and  within  that  bound  to  work  out  for  himself  a  posses- 
sion of  measureless  worth.  It  seemed  to  him  part  of  a 
man's  virtue  to  adhere  loyally  to  the  bond  signed  for  each 
of  us  when  we  enter  life.  Is  our  knowledge  limited — 
then  let  us  strive  within  those  limits.  Can  we  never  lay 
hands  on  the  absolute  good — then  let  us  cherish  the  good 
things  that  are  ours.  Do  we  hold  our  dearest  possessions 
on  a  limited  tenure  —  that  is  hard,  but  is  it  not  in  the 
bond?  How  faint  a  loyalty  is  his  who  merely  yields  obe- 
dience perforce  !  let  us  rather  cast  in  our  will,  unadulterate 
and  whole,  with  that  of  our  divine  Leader ;  sursum  corda 
— there  is  a  heaven  above.     But  Shelley — the  nympholept 


r.]  WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  1803—1839.  121 

of  some  radiant  ante-natal  sphere — fled  througli  bis  brief 
years  ever  in  pursuit  of  bis  lost  lady  of  light ;  and  for  him 
loyalty  to  the  bond  of  life  seemed  to  mean  a  readiness  to 
forget  all  things,  however  cherished,  so  soon  as  they  had 
fulfilled  their  service  of  speeding  him  on  towards  the  un- 
attainable. It  could  not  but  be  that  men  living  under 
rules  so  diverse  should  before  long  find  themselves  far 
asunder.  But  they  parted  in  1812  in  no  spirit  of  ill-will. 
Southey  was  already  a  state-pensioner  and  a  champion  of 
the  party  of  order  in  the  Quarterly  Review ;  this  did  not 
prevent  the  young  apostle  of  liberty  and  fraternity  from 
entering  his  doors,  and  enjoying  Mrs.  Southey's  tea-cakes. 
Irish  affairs  were  earnestly  discussed ;  but  Southey,  who 
had  written  generously  of  Emmett  both  in  his  verse  and 
in  the  Quarterly,  could  not  be  hostile  to  one  whose  illu- 
sions were  only  over  -  sanguine ;  and  while  the  veritable 
Southey  was  before  Shelley's  eyes,  he  could  not  discern 
the  dull  hireling,  the  venomous  apostate,  the  cold-blooded 
assassin,  of  freedom  conjured  up  by  Byron  and  others  to 
bear  Southey's  name. 

Three  years  later  Shelley  presented  his  Alastor  to  the 
laureate,  and  Southey  duly  acknowledged  the  gift.  The 
elder  poet  was  never  slow  to  recognize  genius  in  young 
men,  but  conduct  was  to  him  of  higher  importance  than 
genius ;  he  deplored  some  acts  in  Shellej^'s  life  which 
seemed  to  result  directly  from  opinions  professed  at  Kes- 
wick in  1811 — opinions  then  interpreted  as  no  more  than 
the  disdain  of  checks  felt  by  every  spirited  boy.  Southey 
heard  no  more  from  him  until  a  letter  came  from  Pisa  in- 
quiring whether  Shelley's  former  entertainer  at  Keswick 
were  his  recent  critic  of  the  Quarterly  Review,  with  added 
comments,  courteous  .but  severe,  on  Southey's  opinions. 
The  reply  was  that  Southey  had  not  written  the  paper,  and 
I     6*  "" 


122  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

had  never  in  any  of  his  writings  alluded  to  Shelley  in  any 
way.  A  second  letter  followed  on  each  side,  the  elder 
man  pleading,  exhorting,  warning ;  the  younger  justifying 
himself,  and  returning  to  the  attack.  "  There  the  con-e- 
spondence  ended.  On  Shelley's  part  it  was  conducted  with 
the  courtesy  which  was  natural  to  him ;  on  mine,  in  the 
spirit  of  one  who  was  earnestly  admonishiug  a  fellow- 
creature." 

Much  of  Southey's  time — his  most  valued  possession — 
was  given  to  his  correspondents.  Napoleon's  plan  of  an- 
swering letters,  according  to  Bourrienne,  was  to  let  thera 
lie  unopened  for  six  weeks,  by  yvhich  time  nine  out  of  ten 
had  answered  themselves,  or  had  been  answered  by  his- 
tory. Coleridge's  plan — says  De  Quincey — was  shorter ; 
he  opened  none,  and  answered  none.  To  answer  all  forth- 
with was  the  habit  of  Southey.  Thinking  doubtless  of 
their  differences  in  such  minor  moralities  of  life,  Coleridge 
writes  of  his  brother-in-law: — "Always  employed,  his 
friends  find  him  always  at  leisure.  No  less  punctual  in 
trifles  than  steadfast  in  the  performance  of  highest  duties, 
he  inflicts  none  of  those  small  pains  which  irregular  men 
scatter  about  them,  and  which  in  the  aggregate  so  often 
become  formidable  obstacles  both  to  happiness  and  utility  ; 
while,  on  the  contrary,  he  bestows  all  the  pleasures  and  in- 
spires all  tliat  ease  of  mind  on  those  around  or  connected 
with  him,  which  perfect  consistency  and  (if  such  a  word 
might  be  framed)  absolute  reltabilitj/,  equally  in  small  as 
in  great  concerns,  cannot  but  inspire  and  bestow ;  when 
this,  too,  is  softened  without  being  weakened  by  kindness 
and  gentleness."  Odd  indeed  were  some  of  the  communi- 
cations for  which  the  poet-laureate,  the  Tory  reformer,  and 
the  loyal  son  of  the  Church  was  the  mark.  Now  a  clergy- 
man writes  to  furnish  him  with  Scr-ptaral  illustrations  of 


v.]  WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  1803—1839.  123 

Thalaba ;  now  another  clergyman  favours  him  with  an 
ingenious  parallel  between  Kchania  and  Nebuchadnezzar; 
now  some  anonymous  person  seriously  urges  on  Southey 
his  duty  of  making  a  new  version  of  the  Psalms,  and  lay- 
ing it  before  the  King  to  be  approved  and  appointed  to 
be  sung  in  churches ;  now  a  lunatic  poet  desires  his  broth- 
er to  procure  for  his  title-page  the  names  of  Messrs.  Long- 
man and  Rees ;  now  a  poor  woman,  wife  to  a  blind  Homer, 
would  have  him  led  carefully  to  the  summit  of  Parnassus ; 
now  a  poor  French  devil  volunteers  to  translate  Roderick 
if  the  author  will  have  the  goodness  to  send  him  a  copy 
— even  a  defective  copy  —  which  he  pledges  himself  re- 
ligiously to  return  ;  now  a  Yankee,  who  keeps  an  exhibition 
at  Philadelphia,  modestly  asks  for  Southey's  painted  por- 
trait, "  which  is  very  worthy  a  place  in  my  collection ;" 
now  a  herdsman  in  the  vale  of  Clwyd  requests  permission 
to  send  specimens  of  prose  and  verse — his  highest  ambi- 
tion is  the  acquaintance  of  learned  men ;  now  the  Rev. 
Peter  Hall  begs  to  inform  Southey  that  he  has  done  more 
barm  to  the  cause  of  religion  than  any  writer  of  the  age ; 
now  a  lover  requests  him  to  make  an  acrostic  on  the  name 
of  a  young  lady — the  lover's  rival  has  beaten  him  in  writ- 
ing verses;  enclosed  is  the  honorarium.  Southey's  ami- 
ability at  this  point  gave  way ;  he  did  not  write  the  acros- 
tic, and  the  money  he  spent  on  blankets  for  poor  women 
in  Keswick.  A  society  for  the  suppression  of  albums  was 
proposed  by  Southey ;  yet  sometimes  he  was  captured  in 
the  gracious  mood.  Samuel  Simpson,  of  Liverpool,  begs 
for  a  few  lines  in  his  handwriting  "  to  fill  a  vacancy  in  his 
,  collection  of  autographs,  without  which  his  series  must  re- 
main for  ever  most  incomplete."  The  laureate  replies: 
"  Inasmuch  as  you  Sam,  a  descendant  of  Sim, 
For  collecting  handwritings  have  taken  a  whim, 


124  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

And  to  me,  Robert  Southey,  petition  have  made, 
In  a  civil  and  nicely-penned  letter — post-paid — 
That  I  to  your  album  so  gracious  would  be 
As  to  fill  up  a  page  there  appointed  for  me, 
Five  couplets  I  send  you,  by  aid  of  the  Nine — 
They  will  cost  you  in  postage  a  penny  a  line : 
At  Keswick,  October  the  sixth,  they  were  done. 
One  thousand  eight  hundred  and  twenty  and  one." 

Some  of  Southey's  distractions  were  of  his  own  inviting. 
Soon  after  his  arrival  at  Keswick,  a  tiny  volume  of  poems, 
entitled  Clifton  Grove,  attracted  his  attention ;  its  author 
was  an  undergraduate  of  Cambridge.  The  Monthly  Re- 
view having  made  the  discovery  that  it  rhymed  in  .one 
place  boy  and  sky,  dismissed  the  book  contemptuously. 
Southey  could  not  bear  to  think  that  the  hopes  of  a  lad  of 
promise  should  be  blasted,  and  he  wrote  to  Henry  Kirke 
White,  encouraging  him,  and  offering  him  help  towards  a 
future  volume.  The  cruel  dulness  of  the  reviewer  sat  heav- 
ily on  the  poor  boy's  spirits,  and  these  unexpected  words 
of  cheer  came  with  most  grateful  effect.  It  soon  appeared, 
however,  that  Southey's  services  must  be  slight,  for  his  new 
acquaintance  was  taken  out  of  his  hands  by  Mr.  Simeon, 
the  nursing -father  of  Evangelicalism.  At  no  time  had 
Southey  any  leanings  towards  the  Clapham  Sect ;  and  so, 
while  he  tried  to  be  of  use  to  Kirke  White  indirectly,  their 
correspondence  ceased.  When  the  lad,  in  every  way  lack- 
ing pith  and  substance,  and  ripening  prematurely  in  a  heat- 
ed atmosphere,  drooped  and  died,  Southey  was  not  willing 
that  he  should  be  altogether  forgotten ;  he  wrote  offering 
to  look  over  whatever  papers  there  might  be,  and  to  give 
an  opinion  on  them.  "  Down  came  a  box-full,"  he  tells  Dup- 
pa,  "  the  sight  of  which  literally  made  my  heart  ache  and 
my  eyes  overflow,  for  never  did  I  behold  such  proofs  of  hu- 


v.]  WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  1803—1839.  125 

man  industry.  To  make  short,  I  took  the  matter  up  with 
interest,  collected  his  letters,  and  have,  at  the  expense  of 
more  time  than  such  a  poor  fellow  as  myself  can  very  well 
afford,  done  what  his  family  are  very  grateful  for,  and  what 
I  think  the  world  will  thank  me  for  too.  Of  course  I 
have  done  it  gratuitously.  .  .  .  That  I  should  become,  and 
that  voluntarily  too,  an  editor  of  Metbodistical  and  Calvin- 
istic  letters,  is  a  thing  which,  when  I  think  of,  excites  the 
same  sort  of  smile  that  the  thought  of  my  pension  does." 
A  brief  statement  that  his  own  views  on  religion  differed 
widely  from  those  of  Kirke  White  sufficed  to  save  South- 
ey's  integrity.  The  genius  of  the  dead  poet  he  overrated  ; 
it  was  an  error  which  the  world  has  since  found  time  to 
correct. 

This  was  but  one  of  a  series  of  many  instances  in  which 
Southey,  stemming  the  pressure  of  his  own  engagements, 
asserted  the  right  to  be  generous  of  his  time  and  strength 
and  substance  to  those  who  had  need  of  such  help  as  a 
sound  heart  and  a  strong  arm  can  give.  William  Roberts, 
a  Bristol  bank-clerk,  dying  of  consumption  at  nineteen,  left 
his  only  possession,  some  manuscript  poems,  in  trust  to  be 
published  for  the  benefit  of  a  sister  whom  he  passionately 
loved.  Southey  was  consulted,  and  at  once  bestirred  him- 
self on  behalf  of  the  projected  volume.  Herbert  Knowles, 
an  orphan  lad  at  school  in  Yorkshire,  had  hoped  to  go 
as  a  sizar  to  St.  John's ;  his  relations  were  unable  to  send 
him ;  could  he  help  himself  by  publishing  a  poem  ?  might 
he  dedicate  it  to  the  laureate  ?  The  poem  came  to  Southey, 
who  found  it  "  brimful  of  power  and  of  promise ;"  he  rep- 
resented to  Herbert  the  folly  of  publishing,  promised  ten 
pounds  himself,  and  procured  from  Rogers  and  Earl  Spen- 
cer twenty  more.  Herbert  Knowles,  in  a  wise  and  manly 
letter,  begged  that  great  things  might  not  be  expected  of 


126  SOUTHEY.  [chap 

him ;  he  would  not  be  idle,  his  University  career  should  be 

at  least  respectable : — "  Suffice  it,  then,  to  say,  /  thank  you 
from  my  heart ;  let  time  and  my  future  conduct  tell  the 
rest."  Death  came  to  arbitrate  between  his  hopes  and 
fears.  James  Dusautoy,  another  schoolboy,  one  of  ten  chil- 
dren of  a  retired  officer,  sent  specimens  of  his  verse,  asking 
Southey's  opinion  on  certain  poetical  plans.  His  friends 
thought  the  law  the  best  profession  for  him ;  how  could 
he  make  literature  help  him  forward  in  his  profession  ? 
Southey  again  advised  against  publication,  but  by  a  well- 
timed  efiort  enabled  him  to  enter  Emanuel  College.  Du- 
sautoy, after  a  brilliant  promise,  took  fever,  died,  and  was 
buried,  in  acknowledgment  of  his  character  and  talents,  in 
the  college  cloisters.  When  at  Harrogate  in  the  summer 
of  1827,  Southey  received  a  letter,  written  with  much  mod- 
esty and  good  feeling,  from  John  Jones,  an  old  serving- 
man  ;  he  enclosed  a  poem  on  "  The  Redbreast,"  and  would 
take  the  liberty,  if  permitted,  to  oifer  other  manuscripts 
for  inspection.  Touches  of  true  observation  and  natural 
feeling  in  the  verses  on  the  little  bird  with  "  look  oblique 
and  prying  head  and  gentle  affability"  pleased  Southey, 
and  he  told  his  humble  applicant  to  send  his  manuscript 
book,  warning  him,  however,  not  to  expect  that  such  poems 
would  please  the  public — "  the  time  for  them  was  gone  by, 
and  whether  the  public  had  grown  wiser  in  these  matters 
or  not,  it  had  certainly  become  less  tolerant  and  less  char- 
itable." By  procuring  subscribers  and  himself  contrib- 
uting an  Introductory  Essay  on  the  lives  and  works  of  our 
Uneducated  Poets,  Southey  secured  a  slender  fortune  for 
the  worthy  old  man,  who  laid  the  table  none  the  less  punct- 
ually because  he  loved  Shakspeare  and  the  Psalter,  or  carried 
in  his  head  some  simple  rhymes  of  his  own.  It  pleased 
Southey  to  show  how  much  intellectual  pleasure  and  moral 


T.]  WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  1803—1830.  12V 

improvement  connected  with  such  pleasure  arc  within  reach 

of  the  humblest ;  thus  a  lesson  was  afforded  to  those  who 
would  have  the  March  of  Intellect  beaten  only  to  the  tune 
of  (Ja  ira.  "Before  I  conclude"  —  so  the  Introduction 
draws  to  an  end — "  I  must,  in  my  own  behalf,  give  notice 
to  all  whom  it  may  concern  that  I,  Robert  Southey,  Poet- 
laureate,  being  somewhat  advanced  in  years,  and  having 
business  enough  of  my  own  fully  to  occupy  as  much  time 
as  can  be  devoted  to  it,  consistently  with  a  due  regard  to 
health,  do  hereby  decline  perusing  or  inspecting  any  man- 
uscript from  any  person  whatsoever,  and  desire  that  no  ap- 
plication on  that  score  may  be  made  to  me  from  this  time 
forth ;  this  resolution,  which  for  most  just  cause  is  taken 
and  here  notified,  being,  like  the  laws  of  the  Medes  and  the 
Persians,  not  to  be  changed." 

It  was  some  time  after  this  public  announcement  that 
a  hand,  which  may  have  trembled  while  yet  it  was  very 
brave  and  resolute,  dropped  into  the  little  post-office  at 
Haworth,  in  Yorkshire,  a  packet  for  Robert  Southey.  His 
bold  truthfulness,  his  masculine  self-control,  his  strong 
heart,  his  domestic  temper  sweet  and  venerable,  his  puri 
ty  of  manners,  a  certain  sweet  austerity,  attracted  to  him 
women  of  fine  sensibility  and  genius  who  would  fain  es- 
cape from  their  own  falterings  and  temerities  under  the 
authority  of  a  faithful  director.  Already  Maria  del  Occi- 
dente,  "  the  most  impassioned  and  most  imaginative  of  all 
poetesses,"  had  poured  into  his  ear  the  tale  of  her  slighted 
love.  Newly  come  from  Paris,  and  fulbof  enthusiasm  for 
the  Poles,  she  hastened  to  Keswick  to  see  in  person  her 
sympathetic  adviser ;  she  proved,  says  Southey,  a  most 
interesting  person  of  the  mildest  and  gentlest  manners. 
With  him  she  left,  on  returning  to  America,  her  Zophiel 
in  manuscript,  the  publication  of  which  he  superintended. 


128  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

"Zophiel,  Southey  says,  is  by  some  Yankee  woman" — - 
Charles  Lamb  breaks  forth — "  as  if  there  ever  had  been 
a  woman  capable  of  anything  so  great!"  Now,  in  183*7, 
a  woman  of  finer  spirit,  and  capable  of  higher  things  than 
Zophiel,  addressed  a  letter  to  Robert  Southey,  asking  his 
judgment  of  her  powers  as  disclosed  in  the  poems  which 
she  forwarded.  For  some  weeks  Charlotte  Bronte  waited, 
until  almost  all  hope  of  a  reply  was  lost.  At  length  the 
verdict  came.  Charlotte  Bronte's  verse  was  assuredly 
written  with  her  left  hand;  her  passionate  impulses,  cross- 
ed and  checked  by  fiery  fiats  of  the  will,  would  not  mould 
themselves  into  little  stanzas ;  the  little  stanzas  must  be 
correct,  therefore  they  must  reject  such  irregular  heavings 
and  swift  repressions  of  the  heart.  Southey's  delay  in  re- 
plying had  been  caused  by  absence  from  home.  A  little 
personal  knowledge  of  a  poet  in  the  decline  of  life  might 
have  tempered  her  enthusiasm ;  yet  he  is  neither  a  disap- 
pointed nor  a  discontented  man ;  she  will  never  hear  from 
him  any  chilling  sermons  on  the  text.  All  is  vanity ;  the 
faculty  of  verse  she  possesses  in  no  inconsiderable  degree ; 
but  this,  since  the  beginning  of  the  century,  has  grown  to 
be  no  rare  possession  ;  let  her  beware  of  making  literature 
her  profession,  check  day-dreams,  and  find  her  chief  happi- 
ness in  her  womanly  duties ;  then  she  may  write  poetry 
for  its  own  sake,  not  in  a  spirit  of  emulation,  not  through 
a  passion  for  celebrity ;  the  less  celebrity  is  aimed  at,  the 
more  it  is  likely  to  be  deserved.  "  Mr.  Southey's  letter," 
said  Charlotte  Bronte,  many  years  later,  "  was  kind  and 
admirable,  a  little  stringent,  but  it  did  me  good."  She 
wrote  again,  striving  to  repress  a  palpitating  joy  and  pride 
in  the  submission  to  her  director's  counsel,  and  the  sacri- 
fice of  her  cherished  hopes ;  telling  him  more  of  her  daily 
life,  of  her  obedience  to  the  day's  duty,  her  efforts  to  be 


T.]  WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  18U3— 1839.  129 

sensible  and  sober :  "  I  had  not  ventured,"  she  says,  "  to 
hope  for  such  a  reply — so  considerate  in  its  tone,  so  noble 
in  its  spirit."  Once  more  Southey  wrote,  hoping  that  she 
would  let  him  see  her  at  the  Lakes:  "You  would  then 
think  of  me  afterwards  with  the  more  good-will,  because 
you  would  perceive  that  there  is  neither  severity  nor  mo- 
roseness  in  the  state  of  mind  to  which  years  and  observa- 
tion have  brought  me.  .  .  .  And  now,  madam,  God  bless 
you.  Farewell,  and  believe  me  to  be  your  sincere  friend, 
Robert  Southey."  It  was  during  a  visit  to  the  Lakes  that 
Charlotte  Bronte  told  her  biographer  of  these  letters.  But 
Southey  lay  at  rest  in  Crosthwaite  churchyard. 

*'  My  days  among  the  dead  are  past " — Southey  wrote, 
but  it  is  evident  that  the  living,  and  not  those  of  his  own 
household  alone,  claimed  no  inconsiderable  portion  of  his 
time.  Indeed,  it  would  not  be  untrue  to  assert  that  few 
men  have  been  more  genuinely  and  consistently  social, 
that  few  men  ever  yielded  themselves  more  constantly  to 
the  pleasures  of  companionship.  But  the  society  he  loved 
best  was  that  of  old  and  chosen  friends,  or  if  new  friends, 
one  at  a  time,  and  only  one.  Next  to  romping  with  my 
children,  he  said,  I  enjoy  a  tete-a-tete  conversation  with  an 
old  friend  or  a  new.  "  With  one  I  can  talk  of  familiar 
subjects  which  we  have  discussed  in  former  years,  and  with 
the  other,  if  he  have  any  brains,  I  open  what  to  me  is  a 
new  mine  of  thought."  Miscellaneous  company  to  a  cer- 
tain extent  disordered  and  intoxicated  hira.  He  felt  no 
temptation  to  say  a  great  deal,  but  he  would  often  say 
things  strongly  and  emphatically,  which  were  better  left 
unsaid.  "  In  my  hearty  hatred  of  assentation  I  commit 
faults  of  the  opposite  kind.  Now  I  am  sure  to  find  this 
out  myself,  and  to  get  out  of  humour  with  myself;  what 
prudence  I  have  is  not  ready  on  demand ;  and  so  it  is  tliat 


130  SOUTHEY.  j^chap. 

the  society  of  any  except  my  friends,  though  it  may  be 
sweet  in  the  mouth,  is  bitter  in  the  belly."  When  Cole- 
ridge, in  their  arguments,  allowed  him  a  word,  Southey 
made  up  in  weight  for  what  was  wanting  in  measure ;  he 
saw  one  fact  quickly,  and  darted  at  it  like  a  greyhound. 
De  Quincey  has  described  his  conversation  as  less  flowing 
and  expansive  than  that  of  Wordsworth  —  more  apt  to 
clothe  itself  in  a  keen,  sparkling,  aphoristic  form ;  conse- 
quently sooner  coming  to  au  abrupt  close ;  "  the  style  of 
his  mind  naturally  prompts  him  to  adopt  a  trenchant,  pun- 
gent, aculeated  form  of  terse,  glittering,  stenographic  sen- 
tences— sayings  which  have  the  air  of  laying  down  the  law 
without  any  locus  penitentice  or  privilege  of  appeal,  but  are 
not  meant  to  do  so."  The  same  manner,  tempered  and 
chastened  by  years,  can  be  recognized  in  the  picture  of 
Southey  drawn  by  his  friend  Sir  Henry  Taylor : — 

"  The  characteristics  of  his  manner,  as  of  his  aiDpearance, 
were  lightness  and  strength,  an  easy  and  happy  composure 
as  the  accustomed  mood,  and  much  mobility  at  the  same 
time,  so  that  he  could  be  readily  excited  into  any  degree  of 
animation  in  discourse,  speaking,  if  the  subject  moved  him 
much,  with  extraordinary  fire  and  force,  though  always  in 
light,  laconic  sentences.  When  so  moved,  the  fingers  of  his 
right  hand  often  rested  against  his  mouth  and  quivered 
through  nervous  susceptibility.  But  excitable  as  he  was  in 
conversation,  he  was  never  angry  or  irritable ;  nor  can  there 
be  any  greater  mistake  concerning  him  than  that  into  which 
some  persons  have  fallen  when  they  have  inferred,  from  the 
fiery  vehemence  with  which  he  could  give  utterance  to  moral 
anger  in  verse  or  prose,  that  he  was  personally  ill-tempered 
or  irascible.  He  was,  in  truth,  a  man  whom  it  was  hard- 
ly possible  to  quarrel  with  or  offend  personally,  and  face  to 
face. . . .  He  was  averse  from  argumentation,  and  would  com- 
monly quit  a  subject,  ■wlien  it  was  passing  into  that  shape, 


v.]  WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  1803—1839.  131 

with  a  quiet  and  good-humoured  indication  of  tlie  view  in 
which  he  rested.  He  talked  most,  and  with  most  interest, 
about  books  and  about  public  affairs;  less,  indeed  hardly  at 
all,  about  the  characters  and  qualities  of  men  in  private  life. 
In  the  society  of  strangers  or  of  acquaintances,  he  seemed  to 
take  more  interest  in  the  subjects  spoken  of  than  in  the  per- 
sons present,  his  manner  being  that  of  natural  courtesy  and 
general  benevolence  without  distinction  of  individuals.  Had 
there  been  some  tincture  of  social  vanity  in  him,  perhaps  he 
would  have  been  brought  into  closer  relations  with  those 
whom  he  met  in  society ;  but  though  invariably  kind  and 
careful  of  their  feelings,  he  was  indifferent  to  the  manner  in 
which  they  regarded  him,  or  (as  the  phrase  is)  to  his  effect  in 
society ;  and  they  might,  perhaps,  be  conscious  that  the  kind- 
ness they  received  was  what  flowed  naturally  and  inevitably  to 
all,  that  they  had  nothing  to  give  in  return  which  was  of  value 
to  him,  and  that  no  individual  relations  were  established." 

How  deep  and  rich  Soutbey's  social  nature  was,  his  pub- 
lished correspondence,  some  four  or  five  thousand  printed 
pages,  tells  sufiiciently.  These  letters,  addressed,  for  the 
most  part,  to  good  old  friends,  are  indeed  genial,  liberal  of 
sympathy,  and  expecting  sympathy  in  return  ;  pleasantly 
egotistic,  grave,  playful,  wise,  pathetic,  with  a  kind  of  strin- 
gent pathos  showing  through  checks  imposed  by  the  wiser 
and  stronger  will.  Southey  did  not  squander  abroad  the 
treasures  of  his  affection.  To  lavish  upon  casual  acquaint- 
ance the  outward  and  visible  signs  of  friendship  seemed 
to  him  a  profaning  of  the  mystery  of  manly  love.  "  Your 
feelings,"  he  writes  to  Coleridge,  "  go  naked  ;  I  cover  mine 
with  a  bear-skin ;  I  will  not  say  that  you  harden  yours  by 
your  mode,  but  I  am  sure  that  mine  are  the  warmer  for 
their  clothing."  With  strangers  a  certain  neutral  courtesy 
served  to  protect  his  inner  self  like  the  low  leaves  of  his 
own  holly-tree : 


132  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

"  Below,  a  circling  fence,  its  leaves  are  seen 
Wrinkled  and  keen ; 
No  grazing  cattle  through  their  prickly  round 
Can  reach  to  wound  ;" 

but  to  those  of  whose  goodness  and  love  he  was  well  as- 
sured, there  were  no  protecting  spines: 

"  Gentle  at  home  amid  my  friends  I'd  be, 
Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  Holly-tree." 

"Old  friends  and  old  books,"  he  says,  '  are  the  best  things 
that  this  world  afiords  (I  like  old  wine  also),  and  in  these 
I  am  richer  than  most  men  (the  wine  excepted)."  In  the 
group  of  Southey's  friends,  what  first  strikes  one  is,  not 
that  they  are  men  of  genius — although  the  group  includes 
Wordsworth,  and  Scott,  and  Henry  Taylor — but  that  they 
are  good  men.  No  one  believed  more  thoroughly  than 
Southey  that  goodness  is  a  better  thing  than  genius ;  yet 
he  required  in  his  associates  some  high  excellence,  extraor- 
dinary kindness  of  disposition  or  strength  of  moral  char- 
acter, if  not  extraordinary  intellect.  To  knit  his  friends 
in  a  circle  was  his  ardent  desire ;  in  the  strength  of  his 
affections  time  and  distance  made  no  change.  An  old 
College  friend,  Lightfoot,  to  visit  Southey,  made  the  long- 
est journey  of  his  life;  it  was  eight -and -twenty  years 
since  they  had  met.  When  their  hands  touched.  Light- 
foot  trembled  like  an  aspen-leaf.  "  I  believe,"  says  South- 
ey, "  no  men  ever  met  more  cordially  after  so  long  a  sep- 
aration, or  enjoyed  each  other's  society  more.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  manner  in  which  he  first  met  me,  nor 
the  tone  in  which  he  said  '  that,  having  now  seen  me,  he 
should  return  home  and  die  in  peace.' "  But  of  all 
friends  he  was  most  at  ease  with  his  dear  Dapple,  Gros- 
venor  Bedford,  who  suited  for  every  mood  of  mirth  and 


v.]  WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  1803—1839.  133 

sorrow.  When  Mrs.  Southey  had  fallen  into  her  sad  do- 
cay,  and  the  once  joyous  house  was  melancholy  and  silent, 
Southey  turned  for  comfort  to  Bedford.  Still,  some  of 
their  Rabelaisian  humour  remained,  and  all  their  warmth 
of  brotherly  affection.  "  My  father,"  says  Cuthbert  South- 
ey, "  was  never  tired  of  talking  into  Mr.  Bedford's  trum- 
pet." And  in  more  joyous  days,  what  noise  and  nonsense 
did  they  not  make  !  "  Oh !  Grosvenor,"  exclaims  South- 
ey, "  is  it  not  a  pity  that  two  men  who  love  nonsense  so 
cordially  and  naturally  and  honAjidically  as  you  and  I, 
should  be  three  hundred  miles  asunder  ?  For  my  part,  I 
insist  upon  it  that  there  is  no  sense  so  good  as  your  hon- 
est, genuine  nonsense." 

A  goodly  company  of  friends  becomes  familiar  to  us  as 
we  read  Southey's  correspondence : — Wynn,  wherever  he 
was,  "  always  doing  something  else,"  yet  able,  in  the  midst 
of  politics  and  business,  to  find  time  to  serve  an  old  school- 
fellow ;  Rickman,  full  of  practical  suggestions,  and  accu- 
rate knowledge  and  robust  benevolence ;  John  May,  unfail- 
ing in  kindness  and  fidelity ;  Lamb  for  play  and  pathos, 
and  subtle  criticism  glancing  amid  the  puns ;  William 
Taylor  for  culture  and  literary  theory,  and  paradox  and 
polysyllables ;  Landor  for  generous  admiration,  and  kin- 
dred enthusiasms  and  kindred  prejudices ;  Elmsley,  and 
Lightfoot,  and  Danvers  for  love  and  happy  memories ; 
Senhora  Barker,  the  Bhow  Begum,  for  frank  familiarities, 
and  warm,  womanly  services  ;  Caroline  Bowles  for  rarer 
sympathy  and  sacreder  hopes  and  fears ;  Henry  Taylor 
for  spiritual  sonship,  as  of  a  son  who  is  also  an  equal ;  and 
Grosvenor  Bedford  for  every thmg  great  and  small,  glad 
and  sad,  wise  and  foolish. 

No  literary  rivalries  or  jealousies  ever  interrupted  for  a 
moment  any  friendship  of  Southey.      Political  and  relig- 


134  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

ous  differences,  which  in  strangers  were  causes  of  grave 
offence,  seemed  to  melt  away  when  the  heretic  or  erring 
statist  was  a  friend.  But  if  success,  fashion,  flattery,  tested 
a  man,  and  proved  him  wanting,  as  seemed  to  be  the  case 
with  Humphry  Davy,  his  affection  grew  cold ;  and  an  ha- 
bitual dereliction  of  social  duty,  such  as  that  of  Coleridge, 
could  not  but  transform  Southey's  feeling  of  love  to  one  of 
condemning  sorrow.  To  his  great  contemporaries,  Scott, 
Landor,  Wordsworth,  his  admiration  was  freely  given. 
"  Scott,"  he  writes,  "  is  very  ill.  He  suffers  dreadfully, 
but  bears  his  sufferings  with  admirable  equanimity.  .  .  . 
God  grant  that  he  may  recover !  He  is  a  noble  and  gen- 
erous-hearted creature,  whose  like  we  shall  not  look  upon 
again."  Of  Wordsworth  : — "A  greater  poet  than  Words- 
worth there  never  has  been,  nor  ever  will  be."  "  Two  or 
three  generations  must  pass  before  the  public  affect  to 
admire  such  poets  as  Milton  and  Wordsworth.  Of  such 
men  the  world  scarcely  produces  one  in  a  millennium." 
With  indignation  crossed  by  a  gleam  of  humour,  he  learnt 
that  Ebenezer  Elliott,  his  pupil  in  the  art  of  verse,  had 
stepped  forward  as  the  lyrist  of  radicalism  ;  but  the  feel- 
ing could  not  be  altogether  anger  with  which  he  remem- 
bered that  earnest  face,  once  seen  by  him  at  a  Sheffield 
inn,  its  pale  grey  eyes  full  of  fire  and  meaning,  its  expres- 
sion suiting  well  with  Elliott's  frankness  of  manner  and 
simplicity  of  character,  William  Taylor  was  one  of  the 
liberals  of  liberal  Norwich,  and  dangled  abroad  whatever 
happened  to  be  the  newest  paradox  in  religion.  But  nei- 
ther his  radicalism,  nor  his  Pyrrhonism,  nor  his  paradoxes, 
could  estrange  Southey.  The  last  time  the  oddly-assorted 
pair  met  was  in  Taylor's  house ;  the  student  of  German 
criticism  had  found  some  theological  novelty,  and  wished 
to  draw  his  guest  into  argument ;    Southey  parried  the 


v.]  WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  18u3— 1839.  135 

thrusts  good-liumouredly,  and  at  last  put  an  end  to  them 
with  the  words,  "Taylor,  come  and  see  me  at  Keswick. 
We  will  ascend  Skiddaw,  where  I  shall  have  you  nearer 
heaven,  and  we  will  then  discuss  such  questions  as  these." 

In  the  year  1823  one  of  his  oldest  friends  made  a  pub- 
lic attack  on  Southey,  and  that  friend  the  gentlest  and 
sweetest -natured  of  them  all.  In  a  Quarterly  article 
Southey  had  spoken  of  the  Essays  of  Elia  as  a  book  which 
wanted  only  a  sounder  religious  feeling  to  be  as  delight- 
ful as  it  was  original.  He  had  intended  to  alter  the  ex- 
pression in  the  proof-sheet,  but  no  proof-sheet  was  ever 
sent.  Lamb,  already  pained  by  references  to  his  writings 
in  the  Quarterly,  some  of  which  he  erroneously  ascribed 
to  Southey,  was  deeply  wounded.  "  He  might  have  spared 
an  old  friend  such  a  construction  of  a  few  careless  flights 
that  meant  no  harm  to  religion."  A  long  expostulation 
addressed  by  Elia  to  Kobert  Southey,  Esq.,  appeared  in 
the  London  Magazine  for  October,  only  a  portion  of  which 
is  retained  in  the  Elia  Essays  under  the  title  of  "The 
Tombs  of  the  Abbey ;"  for  though  Lamb  had  playfully  re- 
sented Coleridge's  salutation,  "  my  gentle-hearted  Charles," 
his  heart  Avas  indeed  gentle,  and  could  not  endure  the  pain 
of  its  own  wrath ;  among  the  memorials  of  the  dead  in 
Westminster  he  finds  his  right  mind,  his  truer  self,  once 
more;  he  forgets  the  grave  aspect  with  which  Southey 
looked  awful  on  his  poor  friend,  and  spends  his  indigna- 
tion harmless  as  summer  lightning  over  the  heads  of  a 
Dean  and  Chapter.  Southey,  seeing  the  announcement  of 
a  letter  addressed  to  him  by  Lamb,  had  expected  a  sheaf 
of  friendly  pleasantries ;  with  surprise  he  learnt  what  pain 
his  words  had  caused.  He  hastened  to  explain ;  had 
Lamb  intimated  his  feelings  in  private,  he  would  have 
tried,  by  a  passage  in  the  ensuing  Quarterly,  to  eifacc  the 


136  SOUTHEY.  [chat 

impression  unhappily  created  ;  he  ended  with  a  declaration 
of  unchanged  affection,  and  a  proposal  to  call  on  Lamb. 
"On  my  part,"  Southey  said,  "there  was  not  even  a  mo- 
mentary feeling  of  anger;"  he  at  once  understood  the  love, 
the  error,  the  soreness,  and  the  repentance  awaiting  a  be- 
ing so  composed  of  goodness  as  Elia.  "  Dear  Southey  " 
— runs  the  answer  of  Lamb — "  the  kindness  of  your  note 
has  melted  away  the  mist  that  was  upon  me.  I  have  been 
righting  against  a  shadow.  ...  I  wish  both  magazine  and 
review  were  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  I  shall  be  ashamed 
to  see  you,  and  my  sister  (though  innocent)  will  be  still 
more  so,  for  this  folly  was  done  without  her  knowledge, 
and  has  made  her  uneasy  ever  since.  My  guardian  angel 
was  absent  at  the  time.  I  will  make  up  courage  to  see 
you,  however,  any  day  next  week.  We  shall  hope  that  you 
will  bring  Edith  with  you.  That  will  be  a  second  morti- 
fication ;  she  will  hate  to  see  us ;  but  come  and  heap  em- 
bers ;  we  deserve  it,  I  for  what  I  have  done,  and  she  for 
being  my  sister.  Do  come  early  in  the  day,  by  sunlight, 
that  you  may  see  my  Milton.  .  .  ,  Your  penitent  C.  Lamb." 
At  Bristol,  in  1808,  Southey  met  for  the  first  time  the 
man  of  all  others  whom  he  most  desired  to  see,  the  only 
man  living,  he  says,  "  of  whose  praise  I  was  ambitious,  or 
whose  censure  would  have  humbled  me."  This  was  Wal- 
ter Savage  Landor.  Madoc,  on  which  Southey  had  built 
his  hope  of  renown  as  a  poet,  had  been  published,  and  had 
been  coldly  received ;  Kehania,  which  had  been  begun, 
consequently  now  stood  still.  Their  author  could  indeed, 
as  he  told  Sir  George  Beaumont,  be  contented  with  post- 
humous fame,  but  it  was  impossible  to  be  contented  with 
posthumous  bread  and  cheese.  "  St.  Cecilia  herself  could 
not  have  played  the  organ  if  there  had  been  nobody  to 
blow  the  bellows  for  her."     At  this .  moment,  when  he 


v.]  WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  1803—1839.  137 

turned  sadly  and  bravely  from  poetry  to  more  profitable 
work,  he  first  looked  on  Landor.  "  I  never  saw  any  one 
more  unlike  myself,"  lie  writes,  "  in  every  prominent  part 
of  human  character,  nor  any  one  who  so  cordially  and  in- 
stinctively agreed  with  me  on  so  many  of  the  most  impor- 
tant subjects.  I  have  often  said  before  we  met,  that  I 
would  walk  forty  miles  to  see  him,  and  having  seen  him, 
I  would  gladly  walk  fourscore  to  see  him  again.  He  talk- 
ed of  Thalaba,  and  I  told  him  of  the  series  of  mythologi- 
cal poems  which  I  had  planned,  .  .  .  and  also  told  him  for 
what  reason  they  had  been  laid  aside ;  in  plain  English, 
that  I  could  not  afford  to  write  them.  Landor's  reply  was, 
'  Go  on  with  them,  and  I  will  pay  for  printing  them,  as 
many  as  you  will  write,  and  as  many  copies  as  you 
please.' "  The  princely  offer  stung  Southey,  as  he  says, 
to  the  very  core ;  not  that  he  thought  of  accepting  that 
offer,  but  the  generous  words  were  themselves  a  deed, 
and  claimed  a  return.  He  rose  earlier  each  morning  to 
carry  on  his  Kehama,  without  abstracting  time  from  bet- 
ter-paid task-work;  it  advanced,  and  duly  as  each  section 
of  this  poem,  and  subsequently  of  his  Roderick,  came  to 
be  written,  it  was  transcribed  for  the  friend  whose  sym- 
pathy and  admiration  were  a  golden  reward.  To  be 
praised  by  one's  peers  is  indeed  happiness.  Landor,  lib- 
eral of  applause,  was  keen  in  suggestion  and  exact  in  cen- 
sure. Both  friends  were  men  of  ardent  feelings,  though 
one  had  tamed  himself,  while  the  other  never  could  be 
tamed ;  both  often  gave  their  feelings  a  vehement  utter- 
ance. On  many  matters  they  thought,  in  the  main,  alike — 
on  the  grand  style  in  human  conduct,  on  the  principles  of 
the  poetic  art,  on  Spanish  affairs,  on  Catholicism.  The 
secret  of  Landor's  high-poised  dignity  in  verse  had  been 
discovered  by  Southey ;  he,  like  Landor,  aimed  at  a  clas- 


138  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

sical  purity  of  diction ;  he,  like  Landor,  loved,  as  a  shaper 
of  imaginative  forms,  to  embody  in  an  act,  or  an  incident, 
the  virtue  of  some  eminent  moment  of  human  passion,  and 
to  give  it  fixity  by  sculptured  phrase ;  only  the  repression 
of  a  fiery  spirit  is  more  apparent  in  Landor's  monumental 
lines  than  in  Southey's.  With  certain  organic  resemblances, 
and  much  community  of  sentiment,  there  were  large  differ- 
ences between  the  two,  so  that  when  they  were  drawn  to- 
gether in  sympathy,  each  felt  as  if  he  had  annexed  a  new 
province.  Landor  rejoiced  that  the  first  persons  who  shared 
his  turret  at  Llanthony  were  Southey  and  his  wife ;  again, 
in  1817,  the  two  friends  were  together  for  three  days  at 
Como,  after  Southey  had  endured  his  prime  affliction — the 
death  of  his  son  : — 

"  Grief  had  swept  over  him ;  days  darkened  round ; 
Bellagio,  Valintelvi  smiled  in  vain, 
And  Monte  Rosa  from  Helvetia  far 
Advanced  to  meet  us,  wild  in  majesty 
Above  the  glittering  crests  of  giant  sons 
Station'd  around  ...  in  vain  too  !  all  in  vain." 

Two  years  later  the  warm-hearted  friend  writes  from 
Pistoia,  rejoicing  in  Southey's  joy  :  "  Thank  God !  Tears 
came  into  my  eyes  on  seeing  that  you  were  blessed  with 
a  son."  To  Avatch  the  happiness  of  children  was  Landor's 
highest  delight ;  to  share  in  such  happiness  was  Southey's ; 
and  Arnold  and  Cuthbert  formed  a  new  bond  between 
their  fathers.  In  1836,  when  Southey,  in  his  sixty-third 
year,  guided  his  son  through  the  scenes  of  his  boyhood, 
several  delightful  days  were  spent  at  Clifton  with  Landor. 
I  never  knew  a  man  of  brighter  genius  or  of  kinder  heart, 
said  Southey ;  and  of  Landor  in  earlier  years : — "  He  does 
more  than  any  of  the  gods  of  all  my  mythologies,  for  his 


v.]  WAYS  OF  LIFE  AT  KESWICK,  1803—1839.  139 

very  words  are  thunder  and  lightning — sucli  is  the  power 
and  splendour  with  which  they  burst  out."  Landor  re- 
sponded with  a  majestic  enthusiasm  about  his  friend,  who 
seemed  to  him  no  less  noble  a  man  than  admirable  a 
writer : 

"  No  firmer  breast  than  thine  hath  Heaven 
To  poet,  sage,  or  hero  given : 
No  heart  more  tender,  none  more  just, 
To  that  He  largely  placed  in  trust : 
Therefore  shalt  thou,  whatever  date 
Of  years  be  thine,  with  soul  elate 
Rise  up  before  the  Eternal  throne, 
And  hear,  in  God's  own  voice, '  Well  done  !' " 

That  "Well  done"  greeted  Southey  many  years  before 
Landor' s  imperial  head  was  laid  low.  In  the  last  letter 
from  his  friend  received  by  Southey — already  the  darkness 
was  fast  closing  in — he  writes,  "  If  any  man  living  is  ar- 
dent for  your  welfare,  I  am  ;  whose  few  and  almost  worth- 
less merits  your  generous  heart  has  always  overvalued,  and 
whose  infinite  and  great  faults  it  has  been  too  ready  to 
overlook.  I  will  write  to  you  often,  now  I  learn  that  I 
may  do  it  inoffensively ;  well  remembering  that  among 
the  names  you  have  exalted  is  Walter  Landor."  Alas !  to 
reply  was  now  beyond  the  power  of  Southey ;  still,  he  held 
Gehir  in  his  hands  oftener  than  any  other  volume  of  poe- 
try, and,  while  thought  and  feeling  lived,  fed  upon  its  beau- 
ty. "  It  is  very  seldom  now,"  Caroline  Southey  wrote  at 
a  later  date,  "  that  he  ever  names  any  person :  but  this 
morning,  before  he  left  his  bed,  I  heard  him  repeating 
softly  to  himself,  Za?i(/or,  ay,  Za/ifior." 

"  If  it  be  not  now,  yet  it  will  come  :  the  readiness  is  all " 
— this  was  ever  present  to  Southey  during  the  happy  days 
of  labour  and  rest  in  Greta  Hall.     While  he  was  disposing 


HO  SOCTHEY.  [chap. 

his  books  so  as  to  make  the  comeliest  show,  and  dehght- 
ing  in  their  goodly  ranks ;  while  he  looked  into  the  radiant 
faces  of  his  children,  and  loved  their  innocent  brightness, 
he  yet  knew  that  the  day  of  detachment  was  approaching. 
There  was  nothing  in  such  a  thought  which  stirred  South- 
ey  to  a  rebellious  mood ;  had  he  not  set  his  seal  to  the 
bond  of  life  ?  How  his  heart  rested  in  his  home,  only  his 
own  words  can  tell ;  even  a  journey  to  London  seemed  too 
long : — "  Oh  dear ;  oh  dear !  there  is  such  a  comfort  in 
one's  old  coat  and  old  shoes,  one's  own  chair  and  own  fire- 
side, one's  own  writing-desk  and  own  library — with  a  lit- 
tle girl  climbing  up  to  my  neck,  and  saying,  '  Don't  go  to 
London,  papa — you  must  stay  with  Edith ;'  and  a  little  boy, 
whom  I  have  taught  to  speak  the  language  of  cats,  dogs, 
cuckoos,  and  jackasses,  etc.,  before  he  can  articulate  a  word 
of  his  own ; — there  is  such  a  comfort  in  all  these  things, 
that  transportation  to  London  for  four  or  five  weeks  seems 
a  heavier  punishment  than  any  sins  of  mine  deserve." 
Nor  did  his  spirit  of  boyish  merriment  abate  until  over- 
whelming sorrow  weighed  him  down : — "  I  am  quite  as  noi- 
sy as  I  ever  was,"  he  writes  to  Lightfoot,  "  and  should 
take  as  much  delight  as  ever  in  showering  stones  through 
the  hole  of  the  staircase  against  your  room  door,  and  hear- 
ing with  wh^t  hearty  good  earnest  '  you  fool '  was  vocifer- 
ated in  indignation  against  me  in  return.  Oh,  dear  Light- 
foot,  what  a  blessing  it  is  to  have  a  boy's  heart !  it  is  as 
great  a  blessing  in  carrying  one  through  this  world,  as 
to  have  a  child's  spirit  will  be  in  fitting  us  for  the  next." 
But  Southey's  light  -  heartedness  was  rounded  by  a  circle 
of  earnest  acquiescence  in  the  law  of  mortal  life ;  a  clear- 
obscure  of  faith  as  pure  and  calm  and  grave  as  the  heavens 
of  a  midsummer  night.  At  thirty  he  writes : — "  No  man 
was  ever  more  contented  with  his  lot  than  I  am,  for  few 


v.]  WAYS  OF  LITE  AT  KESWICK,  1803—1839.  141 

have  ever  liad  more  enjoyments,  and  none  had  ever  better 
or  worthier  hopes.  Life,  therefore,  is  sufficiently  dear  to 
me,  and  long  life  desirable,  that  I  may  accomplish  all  which 
I  design.  But  yet  I  could  be  well  content  that  the  next 
century  were  over,  and  my  part  fairly  at  an  end,  having 
been  gone  well  through.  Just  as  at  school  one  wished  the 
school-days  over,  though  we  were  happy  enough  there,  be- 
cause we  expected  more  happiness  and  more  liberty  when 
we  were  to  be  our  own  masters,  might  lie  as  much  later  in 
the  morning  as  we  pleased,  have  no  bounds  and  do  no  ex- 
ercise— just  so  do  I  wish  that  my  exercises  were  over." 
At  thirty-five: — "Almost  the  only  wish  I  ever  give  utter- 
ance to  is  that  the  next  hundred  years  were  over.  It  is 
not  that  the  uses  of  this  world  seem  to  me  weary,  stale, 
flat,  and  unprofitable  —  God  knows  far  otherwise !  No 
man  can  be  better  contented  with  his  lot.  My  paths  are 
paths  of  pleasantness.  .  .  .  Still,  the  instability  of  human 
happiness  is  ever  before  my  eyes ;  I  long  for  the  certain 
and  the  permanent."  "  My  notions  about  life  are  much 
the  same  as  they  are  about  travelling — there  is  a  good  deal 
of  amusement  on  the  road,  but,  after  all,  one  wants  to  be 
at  rest."  At  forty : — "  My  disposition  is  invincibly  cheer- 
ful, and  this  alone  would  make  me  a  cheerful  man  if  I 
were  not  so  from  the  tenor  of  my  life ;  yet  I  doubt  wheth- 
er the  strictest  Carthusian  has  the  thought  of  death  more 
habitually  in  his  mind." 

Such  was  Southey's  constant  temper :  to  some  persons 
it  may  seem  an  unfortunate  one ;  to  some  it  may  be  prac- 
tically unintelligible.  But  those  who  accept  of  the  feast 
of  life  freely,  who  enter  with  a  bounding  foot  its  measures 
of  beauty  and  of  joy — glad  to  feel  all  the  while  the  ser- 
viceable sackcloth  next  the  skin — will  recognize  in  Southey 
an  instructed  brother  of  the  Renunciants'  rule. 


CHAPTER  YI. 

CHANGES  AND  EVENTS,  1803 1843. 

In  October,  1805,  Southey  started  with  his  frieud  Elmsley 
for  a  short  tour  in  Scotland.  On  their  way  northward 
they  stopped  three  days  at  Ashestiel.  There,  in  a  small 
house,  rising  amid  its  old-fashioned  garden,  with  pastoral 
hills  all  around,  and  the  Tweed  winding  at  the  meadow's 
end,  lived  Walter  Scott.  It  was  the  year  in  which  old 
Border  song  had  waked  up,  with  ampler  echoings,  in  the 
Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel^  and  Scott  was  already  famous. 
Earlier  in  the  year  he  had  v-isited  Grasmere,  and  had  stood 
upon  the  summit  of  Helvellyn,  with  Wordsworth  and 
Davy  by  his  side.  The  three  October  days,  with  their 
still,  misty  brightness,  went  by  in  full  enjoyment.  Southey 
had  brought  with  him  a  manuscript  containing  sundry 
metrical  romances  of  the  fifteenth  century,  on  which  his 
host  pored,  as  far  as  courtesy  and  the  hours  allowed,  with 
much  delight;  and  the  guests  saw  Melrose,  that  old  ro- 
mance in  stone  so  dear  to  Scott,  went  salmon-spearing  on 
the  Tweed,  dined  on  a  hare  snapped  up  before  their  eyes 
by  Percy  and  Douglas,  and  \dsited  Yarrow.  From  Ashes- 
tiel they  proceeded  to  Edinburgh,  Southey  looked  coldly 
on  the  grey  metropolis ;  its  new  city  seemed  a  kind  of 
Puritan  Bath,  which  worshipped  propriety  instead  of  pleas- 
ure ;  but  the  old  town,  seen  amid  the  slant  light  of  a  wild, 


rHAP.vi.]        CHANGES  AND  EVENTS,  1803—1843.  143 

red  sunset,  impressed  Lim  much,  its  vast  irregular  outline 
of  roofs  and  chimneys  rising  against  tumultuous  cloudf 
like  the  dismantled  fragments  of  a  giant's  palace.  South- 
ey  was  prepared  to  find  himself  and  his  friends  of  the 
Lakes  persons  of  higher  stature  than  the  Scotch  literatuli. 
Before  accepting  an  invitation  to  meet  him  at  supper, 
Jeffrey  politely  forwarded  the  proof  of  an  unpublished  re- 
view of  Madoc ;  if  the  poet  preferred  that  his  reviewer 
should  not  present  himself,  Mr.  Jeffrey  would  deny  him- 
self the  pleasure  of  Mr.  Southey's  acquaintance.  Southey 
was  not  to  be  daunted,  and,  as  he  tells  it  himself,  felt  noth- 
ing but  good-humour  on  beholding  a  bright-faced  homun- 
culus  of  five-foot-one,  the  centre  of  an  attentive  circle, 
eenunciating  with  North-British  eelocution  his  doctrines 
on  taste.  The  lively  little  gentleman,  who  thought  to 
crush  The  Excursion — he  could  as  easily  crush  Skiddaw, 
said  Southey — received  from  the  author  of  Madoc  a  cour- 
tesy de  ha,ut  en  has  intended  to  bring  home  to  his  con- 
sciousness the  fact  that  he  was — but  five-foot-one.  The 
bland  lips  of  the  gods  who  looked  down  on  Auld  Reekie 
that  evening  smiled  at  the  magnanimity  alike  of  poet  and 
critic. 

Two  years  later  (1807),  differences  having  arisen  between 
the  proprietors  and  the  editor  of  the  Edinburgh  Review, 
it  was  in  contemplation  to  alter  the  management,  and  Long- 
man wrote  requesting  Southey  to  review  him  two  or  three 
articles  "  in  his  best  manner."  Southey  did  not  keep 
firkins  of  criticism  of  first  and  second  brand,  but  he  was 
not  unwilling  to  receive  ten  guineas  a  sheet  instead  of 
seven  pounds.  When,  however,  six  months  later,  Scott 
urged  his  friend  to  contribute.  Judge  Jeffrey  still  sat  on 
the  bench  of  the  Edinburgh  Revieiv,  hanging,  drawing,  and 
quartering  luckless  poets  with  undiminished  vivacity.     It 


1*4  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

was  of  no  use  for  Scott  to  assure  Southey  that  the  homun- 
culus,  notwithstanding  his  flippant  attacks  on  Madoc  and 
Thalaba,  had  the  most  sincere  respect  for  their  author  and 
his  talents.  Setting  all  personal  feelings  aside,  an  irrecon- 
cilable difference,  Southey  declared,  between  Jeffrey  and 
himself  upon  every  gTeat  principle  of  taste,  morality,  and 
policy,  occ;-^ioned  a  difficulty  which  could  not  be  removed. 
Within  less  than  twelve  months  Scott,  alienated  by  the 
deepening  Whiggery  of  the  Review,  and  by  more  personal 
causes,  had  ceased  to  contribute,  and  opposite  his  name  in 
the  list  of  subscribers  Constable  had  written,  with  indig- 
nant notes  of  exclamation,  "  Stopt !  !  .^"  John  Murray,  the 
young  bookseller  in  Fleet  Street,  had  been  to  Ashestiel ; 
in  "  dern  privacie  "  a  bold  complot  was  laid ;  why  should 
the  Edinburgh  clique  carry  it  before  them?  The  spirit 
of  England  was  still  sound,  and  would  respond  to  loyalty, 
patriotism,  the  good  traditions  of  Church  and  State,  the 
temper  of  gentlemen,  courage,  scholarship  ;  Gifford,  of  the 
Anti  -  Jacobin,  had  surely  a  sturdier  arm  than  Jeffrey ; 
George  Ellis  would  remember  his  swashing-blow ;  there 
were  the  Roses,  and  Matthias,  and  Heber ;  a  rival  Review 
should  see  the  light,  and  that  speedily  ;  "  a  good  plot,  good 
friends,  and  full  of  expectation — an  excellent  plot,  very 
good  friends." 

Southey  was  invited  to  write  on  Spanish  affairs  for  the 
first  number  of  the  Quarterly  (February,  1809).  His  polit- 
ical opinions  had  undergone  a  considerable  alteration  since 
the  days  of  Pantisocracy  and  Joan  of  Arc.  The  Reign  of 
Terror  had  not  caused  a  violent  reaction  against  the  doc- 
trine of  a  Republic,  nor  did  he  soon  cease  to  sympathize 
with  France.  But  his  hopes  were  dashed ;  it  was  plain 
that  "the  millennium  would  not  come  this  bout."  Man 
as  he  is  appeared  more  greedy,  ignorant,  and  dangerous 


VI.]  CHANGES  AND  EVENTS,  1803—1843.  145 

than  he  had  appeared  before,  though  man  as  he  may  be 
was  still  a  being  composed  of  knowledge,  virtue,  and  love. 
The  ideal  republic  receded  into  the  dimness  of  unborn 
time;  no  doubt  —  so  Southey  maintained  to  the  end  —  a 
republic  is  the  best  form  of  government  in  itself,  as  a  sun- 
dial is  simpler  and  surer  than  a  time-piece;  but  the  sun 
of  reason  does  not  always  shine,  and  therefore  complicated 
systems  of  government,  containing  checks  and  counter- 
checks, are  needful  in  old  countries  for  the  present ;  bet- 
ter systems  are  no  doubt  conceivable  —  for  better  men. 
"Mr.  Southey's  mind,"  wrote  Hazlitt,  "is  essentially  san- 
guine, even  to  overweeningness.  It  is  prophetic  of  good ; 
it  cordially  embraces  it ;  it  casts  a  longing,  lingering  look 
after  it,  even  when  it  is  gone  for  ever.  He  cannot  bear 
to  give  up  the  thought  of  happiness,  his  confidence  in  his 
fellow-men,  when  all  else  despair.  It  is  the  very  element 
'  where  he  must  live  or  have  no  life  at  all.' "  This  is  true  ; 
we  sacrifice  too  much  to  prudence — Southey  said,  when 
not  far  from  sixty — and  in  fear  of  incurring  the  danger 
or  the  reproach  of  enthusiasm,  too  often  we  stifle  the  ho- 
liest impulses  of  the  understanding  and  the  heart.  Still, 
at  sixty  he  believed  in  a  state  of  society  actually  to  be 
realized  as  superior  to  English  society  in  the  nineteenth 
century,  as  that  itself  is  superior  to  the  condition  of  the 
tattooed  Britons,  or  of  the  Northern  Pirates  from  whom 
we  have  descended.  But  the  error  of  supposing  such  a 
state  of  society  too  near,  of  fancying  that  there  is  a  short 
road  to  it,  seemed  to  him  a  pernicious  error,  seducing  the 
young  and  generous  into  an  alliance  with  whatever  is  fla- 
gitious and  detestable. 

It  was   not   until  the  Peace   of   Amiens   (1802)  that 
Southey  was   restored   in   feeling   to    his    own    country. 
From  that  hour  the  new  departure  in  his  politics  may  be 
1* 


146  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

said  to  date.  The  honour  of  England  became  as  dear  to 
him  as  to  her  most  patriotic  son ;  and  in  the  man  who 
had  subjugated  the  Swiss  Republic,  and  thrown  into  a 
dungeon  the  champion  of  Negro  independence,  and 
slaughtered  his  prisoners  at  Jaffa,  he  indignantly  refused 
to  recognize  the  representative  of  the  generous  principles 
of  1789.  To  him,  as  to  Wordsworth,  the  very  life  of 
virtue  in  mankind  seemed  to  dwell  in  the  struggle  against 
the  military  despotism  which  threatened  to  overwhelm  the 
whole  civilized  world.  Whatever  went  along  with  a  spir' 
ited  war-policy  Southey  could  accept.  It  appeared  to  him- 
self that  his  views  and  hopes  had  changed  precisely  be- 
cause the  heart  and  soul  of  his  wishes  had  continued  the 
same.  To  remove  the  obstacles  which  retard  the  improve- 
ment of  mankind  was  the  one  object  to  which,  first  and 
last,  he  gave  his  most  earnest  vows.  "  This  has  been  the 
pole-star  of  my  course ;  the  needle  has  sliifted  according 
to  the  movements  of  the  state  vessel  wherein  I  am  em- 
barked, but  the  direction  to  which  it  points  has  always 
been  the  same.  I  did  not  fall  into  the  error  of  those 
who,  having  been  the  friends  of  France  when  they  imag- 
ined that  the  cause  of  liberty  was  implicated  in  her  suc- 
cess, transferred  their  attachment  from  the  Republic  to 
the  Military  Tyranny  in  which  it  ended,  and  regarded 
with  complacency  the  progress  of  oppression  because 
France  was  the  oppressor.  'They  had  turned  their  faces 
toward  the  East  in  the  morning  to  worship  the  rising  sun, 
and  in  the  evening  they  were  looking  eastward,  obstinately 
affirming  that  still  the  sun  was  there.'  I,  on  the  contrary, 
altered  my  position  as  the  world  went  round.'" 

Wordsworth  has   described   in   memorable  words   the 
sudden  exaltation  of  the  spirit  of  resistance  to  Napoleon, 

'  The  words  quoted  by  Southey  are  his  own,  written  in  1 809. 


VI.]  CHANGES  AND  EVENTS,  1803—1843.  147 

its  change  from  the  temper  of  fortitude  to  enthusiasm, 
animated  by  hope,  when  the  Spanish  people  rose  against 
their  oppressors.  "  From  that  moment,"  he  says,  "  this 
corruptible  put  on  incorruption,  and  this  mortal  put  on 
immortality."  Southey  had  learned  to  love  the  people 
of  the  Peninsula;  he  had  almost  naturalized  himself 
among  them  by  his  studies  of  Spanish  and  Portuguese 
history  and  literature.  Now  there  was  in  him  a  new  birth 
of  passion  at  a  period  of  life  when  ordinarily  the  crust  of 
custom  begins  to  encase  our  free  spirits.  All  his  moral 
ardour  flowed  in  the  same  current  with  his  political  enthu- 
siasm ;  in  this  war  there  was  as  direct  a  contest  between 
the  principles  of  evil  and  good  as  the  elder  Persians  or 
the  Manicheans  imagined  in  their  fables.  "Since  the 
stirring  day  of  the  French  Revolution,"  he  writes  to  John 
May,  "  I  have  never  felt  half  so  much  excitement  in  po- 
litical events  as  the  present  state  of  Spain  has  given  me." 
Little  as  he  liked  to  leave  home,  if  the  Spaniards  would 
bury  their  crown  and  sceptre,  he  would  gird  up  his  loins 
and  assist  at  the  ceremony,  devout  as  ever  pilgrim  at  Cora- 
postella.  A  federal  republic  which  should  unite  the  Pen- 
insula, and  allow  the  internal  governments  to  remain  dis- 
tinct, was  what  Southey  ardently  desired.  When  news 
came  of  the  Convention  of  Cintra  (1808),  the  poet,  ordi- 
narily so  punctual  a  sleeper,  lay  awake  all  night ;  since 
the  execution  of  the  Brissotines  no  public  event  distressed 
him  so  deeply.  "  How  gravely  and  earnestly  used  Samuel 
Taylor  Coleridge  " — so  writes  Coleridge's  daughter — "  and 
"William  Wordsworth  and  my  uncle  Southey  also,  to  dis- 
cuss the  affairs  of  the  nation,  as  if  it  all  came  home  to 
their  business  and  bosoms,  as  if  it  were  their  private  con- 
cern!  Men  do  not  canvass  these  matters  now -a- days,  I 
think,  quite  in  the  same  tone." 


148  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

That  faith  in  the  ultimate  triumph  of  good  which  sus- 
tains Southey's  heroine  against  the  persecution  of  the  Al- 
mighty Rajah,  sustained  Southey  himself  during  the  long 
struggle  with  Napoleon.  A  military  despotism  youthful 
and  full  of  vigour,  he  said,  must  beat  down  corrupt  estab- 
lishments and  worn-out  governments ;  but  how  can  it  beat 
down  for  ever  a  true  love  of  liberty  and  a  true  spirit  of 
patriotism  ?  When  at  last  tidings  reached  Keswick  that 
the  Allies  were  in  Paris,  Southey's  feelings  were  such  as 
he  had  never  experienced  before.  "  The  curtain  had  fallen 
after  a  tragedy  of  five-and-twenty  years."  The  hopes,  and 
the  ardours,  and  the  errors,  and  the  struggles  of  his  early 
life  crowded  upon  his  mind;  all  things  seemed  to  have 
worked  together  for  good.  He  rejoiced  that  the  whirl- 
wind of  revolution  had  cleared  away  the  pestilence  of  the 
old  governments ;  he  rejoiced  that  right  had  conquered 
might.  He  did  not  wish  to  see  the  bad  Bourbon  race 
restored,  except  to  complete  Bonaparte's  overthrow.  And 
he  feared  lest  an  evil  peace  should  be  made.  Paris  taken, 
a  commanding  intellect  might  have  cast  Europe  into  what- 
ever mould  it  pleased.  "  The  first  business,"  says  Southey, 
with  remarkable  prevision,  "  should  have  been  to  have  re- 
duced France  to  what  she  was  before  Louis  XIV.'s  time ; 
the  second,  to  have  created  a  great  power  in  the  North  of 
Germany,  with  Prussia  at  its  head ;  the  third,  to  have  con- 
solidated Italy  into  one  kingdom  or  commonwealth." 

The  politicians  of  the  Edinburgh  Review  had  predicted 
ruin  for  all  who  dared  to  oppose  the  Corsican  ;  they  ridi- 
culed the  romantic  hopes  of  the  English  nation;  the  fate 
of  Spain,  they  declared  in  1810,  was  decided;  it  would  be 
cruel,  they  said,  to  foment  petty  insurrections ;  France  had 
conquered  Europe.  It  was  this  policy  of  despair  which 
roused  Scott  and  Southey.     "  We  shall  hoist  the  bloody 


VI.]  CHANGES  AND  EVENTS,  1803—1843.  149 

flag,"  writes  the  latter,  "  down  alongside  that  Scotch  ship, 
and  engage  her  yard-arm  to  yard-arm."  But  at  first 
Southey,  by  his  own  request,  was  put  upon  other  work 
than  that  of  firing  ofE  the  heavy  Quarterly  guns.  Proba- 
bly no  man  in  England  had  read  so  many  books  of  travel ; 
these  he  could  review  better,  he  believed,  than  anything 
else ;  biography  and  history  were  also  within  his  reach ; 
with  English  poetry,  from  Spenser  onwards,  his  acquaint- 
ance was  wide  and  minute,  but  he  took  no  pleasure  in  sit- 
ting in  judgment  on  his  contemporaries  ;  his  knowledge  of 
the  literary  history  of  Spain  and  Portugal  was  a  speciality, 
which,  as  often  as  the  readers  of  the  Review  could  bear 
with  it,  might  be  brought  into  use.  Two  things  he  could 
promise  without  fail — perfect  sincerity  in  what  he  might 
write,  without  the  slightest  pretension  of  knowledge  which 
he  did  not  possess,  and  a  punctuality  not  to  be  exceeded  by 
Mr.  Murray's  opposite  neighbour,  the  clock  of  St.  Dunstan's. 
Southey's  essays  —  literary,  biographical,  historical,  and 
miscellaneous  —  would  probably  now  exist  in  a  collected 
form,  and  constitute  a  storehouse  of  information — infor- 
mation often  obtained  with  difficulty,  and  always  conveyed 
in  a  lucid  and  happy  style — were  it  not  that  he  chose,  on 
the  eve  of  the  Reform  Bill,  to  earn  whatever  unpopulari- 
ty he  could  by  collecting  his  essays  on  political  and  social 
subjects.  Affairs  had  hurried  forward  with  eager  strides ; 
these  Qiiarterly  articles  seemed  already  far  behind,  and 
might  safely  be  left  to  take  a  quiet  corner  in  Time's  wal- 
let among  the  alms  for  oblivion.  Yet  Southey's  political 
articles  had  been  effective  in  their  day,  and  have  still  a 
value  by  no  means  wholly  antiquarian.  His  home  politics 
had  been,  in  the  main,  determined  by  his  convictions  on 
the  great  European  questions.  There  was  a  party  of 
revolution  in  this  country  eager  to  break  with  the  past, 


150  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

ready  to  venture  every  experiment  for  a  future  of  mere 
surmise.  Southey  believed  that  the  moral  sense  of  the 
English  people,  their  regard  for  conduct,  would  do  much 
to  preserve  them  from  lawless  excess ;  still,  the  lesson  read 
by  recent  history  was  that  order  once  overthrown,  anarchy 
follows,  to  be  itself  quelled  by  the  lordship  of  the  sword. 
Eights,  however,  were  pleaded — shall  we  refuse  to  any  man 
the  rights  of  a  man  ?  "  Therapeutics,"  says  Southey, "  were 
in  a  miserable  state  as  long  as  practitioners  proceeded 
upon  the  gratuitous  theory  of  elementary  complexions; .  . . 
natural  philosophy  was  no  better,  being  a  mere  farrago  of 
romance,  founded  upon  idle  tales  or  fanciful  conjectures, 
not  upon  observation  and  experiment.  The  science  of 
politics  is  just  now  in  the  same  stage ;  it  has  been  erect- 
ed by  shallow  sophists  upon  abstract  rights  and  imaginary 
compacts,  without  the  slightest  reference  to  habits  and 
history."  "  Order  and  improvement "  were  the  words  in- 
scribed on  Southey's  banner.  Order,  that  England  might 
not  fall,  as  France  had  fallen,  into  the  hands  of  a  military 
saviour  of  society ;  order,  that  she  might  be  in  a  condition 
to  wage  her  great  feud  on  behalf  of  freedom  with  undi- 
vided energy.  Order,  therefore,  first ;  not  by  repression 
alone — though  there  were  a  time  and  a  place  for  repres- 
sion also — but  order  with  improvement  as  a  portion  of 
its  very  life  and  being.  Southey  was  a  poet  and  a  moral- 
ist, and  judged  of  the  well-being  of  a  people  by  other  than 
material  standards ;  the  wealth  of  nations  seemed  to  him 
something  other  and  higher  than  can  be  ascertained  by 
wages  and  prices,  rent  and  revenue,  exports  and  imports. 
"  True  it  is,"  he  writes,  "  the  ground  is  more  highly  culti- 
vated, the  crooked  hedge-rows  have  been  thrown  down, 
the  fields  are  in  better  shape  and  of  handsomer  dimen- 
sions, the  plough  makes  longer  furrows,  there  is  more  corn 


Yi.l  CHANGES  AND  EVENTS,  1803—1843.  151 

and  fewer  weeds ;  but  look  at  the  noblest  produce  of  the 
earth — look  at  the  children  of  the  soil,  look  at  the  seeds 
which  are  sown  here  for  immortality !"  "  The  system 
which  produces  the  happiest  moral  effects  will  be  found 
the  most  beneficial  to  the  interest  of  the  individual  and 
the  general  weal ;  upon  this  basis  the  science  of  political 
economy  will  rest  at  last,  when  the  ponderous  volumes 
with  which  it  has  been  overlaid  shall  have  sunk  by  their 
own  weight  into  the  dead  sea  of  oblivion."  Looking 
about  him,  he  asked,  What  do  the  English  people  chiefly 
need?  More  wealth?  It  may  be  so;  but  rather  wisdom 
to  use  the  wealth  they  have.  More  votes  ?  Yes,  hereaf- 
ter; but  first  the  light  of  knowledge,  that  men  may  see 
how  to  use  a  vote.  Even  the  visible  beauty  and  grace  of 
life  seemed  to  Southey  a  precious  thing,  the  loss  of  which 
might  be  set  over  against  some  gain  in  pounds,  shillings, 
and  pence.  The  bleak  walls  and  barrack-like  windows  of 
a  manufactory,  the  long,  unlovely  row  of  operatives'  dwell- 
ings, struck  a  chill  into  his  heart.  He  contrasts  the  old 
cottages  substantially  built  of  native  stone,  mellowed  by 
time,  taken  by  nature  to  herself  with  a  mother's  fondness, 
the  rose-bushes  beside  the  door,  the  little  patch  of  flower- 
garden — he  contrasts  these  with  the  bald  deformities  in 
which  the  hands  of  a  great  mill  are  stalled. 

Before  all  else,  national  education  appeared  to  Southey 
to  be  the  need  of  England.  He  saw  a  great  population 
growing  up  with  eager  appetites,  and  consciousness  of 
augmented  power.  Whence  were  moral  thoughtfulness 
and  self-restraint  to  come  ?  Not,  surely,  from  the  triumph 
of  liberal  opinions ;  not  from  the  power  to  read  every 
incentive  to  vice  and  sedition ;  nor  from  Religious  Tract 
Societies ;  nor  from  the  portentous  bibliolatry  of  the 
Evangelical  party.     But  there  is  an  education  which  at 


152  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

once  enlightens  the  understanding  and  trains  the  con- 
science and  the  will.  And  there  is  that  great  association 
for  making  men  good — the  Church  of  England.  Connect 
the  two — education  and  the  Church;  the  progress  of  en- 
lightenment, virtue,  and  piety,  however  gradual,  will  be  sure. 
Subordinate  to  this  primary  measure  of  reform,  national 
education,  many  other  measures  were  advocated  by  South- 
cy.  He  looked  forward  to  a  time  when,  the  great  struggle 
respecting  property  over — for  this  struggle  he  saw  loom- 
ing not  far  off — public  opinion  will  no  more  tolerate  the 
extreme  of  poverty  in  a  large  class  of  the  people  than  it 
now  tolerates  slavery  in  Europe ;  when  the  aggregation 
of  land  in  the  hands  of  great  owners  must  cease,  when 
that  community  of  lands,  which  Owen  of  Lanark  would 
too  soon  anticipate,  might  actually  be  realized.  But  these 
things  were,  perhaps,  far  off.  Meanwhile  how  to  bring 
nearer  the  golden  age  ?  Southey's  son  has  made  out  a 
long  list  of  the  measures  urged  upon  the  English  people 
in  the  Quarterly  Review,  or  elsewhere,  by  his  father. 
Bearing  in  mind  that  the  proposer  of  these  measures  re- 
sisted the  Reform  Bill,  Free  Trade,  and  Catholic  Emanci- 
pation, any  one  curious  in  such  things  may  determine  with 
what  political  label  he  should  be  designated : — National 
education ;  the  diffusion  of  cheap  and  good  literature ;  a 
well-organized  system  of  colonization,  and  especially  of  fe- 
male emigration  ;*  a  wholesome  training  for  the  children 
of  misery  and  vice  in  great  cities;  the  establishment  of 
Protestant  sisters  of  charity,  and  a  better  order  of  hospital 

'  "  With  the  Cape  and  New  Holland  I  would  proceed  thus : — '  Gov- 
e'-n  yourselves,  and  we  will  protect  you  as  long  as  you  need  protec- 
tion ;  when  that  is  no  longer  necessary,  remember  that  though  we 
ije  different  countries,  each  independent,  we  are  one  people.'  " — R.  S. 
lO  W.  S.  Landor.     Letters,  vol.  ii.  p.  263. 


vr.]  CHANGES  AND  EVENTS,  1803—1843.  153 

nurses;  the  establishment  of  savings-banks  in  all  small 
towns;  the  abolition  of  flogging  in  the  army  and  navy, 
except  in  extreme  cases ;  improvements  in  the  poor-laws ; 
alterations  in  the  game-laws;  alterations  in  the  criminal 
laws,  as  inflicting  the  punishment  of  death  in  far  too  many 
cases ;  execution  of  criminals  within  prison  walls ;  altera- 
tions in  the  factory  system  for  the  benefit  of  the  operative, 
and  especially  as  to  the  employment  of  children ;  national 
works  —  reproductive  if  possible  —  to  be  undertaken  in 
times  of  peculiar  distress ;  the  necessity  of  doing  away 
with  interments  in  crowded  cities ;  the  system  of  giving 
allotments  of  ground  to  labourers;  the  employment  of 
paupers  in  cultivating  waste  lands;  the  commutation  of 
tithes;  and  last,  the  need  for  more  clergymen,  more  col- 
leges, more  courts  of  law. 

"  Mr.  Southey,"  said  Hazlitt,  "  missed  his  way  in  Uto- 
pia ;  he  has  found  it  at  old  Sarum."  To  one  of  Southey's 
temper  old  Sarum  seemed  good,  with  its  ordered  freedom, 
its  serious  aspiration,  its  habitual  pieties,  its  reasonable 
service,  its  reverent  history,  its  beauty  of  holiness,  its  close 
where  priests  who  are  husbands  and  fathers  live  out  their 
calm,  benignant  lives — its  amiable  home  for  those  whose 
toil  is  ended,  and  who  now  sleep  well.  But  how  Southey 
found  his  way  from  his  early  deism  to  Anglican  ortho- 
doxy cannot  be  precisely  determined.  Certainly  not  for 
many  years  could  he  have  made  that  subscription  to  the 
Articles  of  the  Church  of  England,  which  at  the  first  bar- 
red his  way  to  taking  orders.  The  superstition,  which 
seemed  to  be  the  chief  spiritual  food  of  Spain,  had  left 
Southey,  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  a  resolute  opponent  of 
Catholicism ;  and  as  he  read  lives  of  the  Saints  and  his- 
tories of  the  Orders,  the  exclamation,  "  I  do  well  to  be  an- 
gry," was  often  on  his  lips.  For  the  wisdom,  learning, 
L  1 


154  SOTJTHEY.  [chap. 

and  devotion  of  the  Jesuits  he  had,  however,  a  just  respect. 
Geneva,  with  its  grim  logic  and  stark  spirituality,  suited 
nerves  of  a  different  temper  from  his.  For  a  time  South- 
ey  thought  himself  half  a  Quaker,  but  he  desired  more 
visible  beauty  and  more  historical  charm  than  he  could 
find  in  Quakerism.  Needing  a  comely  home  for  his  spir- 
itual affections,  he  found  precisely  what  pleased  him  built 
in  the  pleasant  Anglican  close.  With  growing  loyalty  to 
the  State,  his  loyalty  to  the  Church  could  not  but  keep 
pace.  He  loved  her  tolerance,  her  culture ;  he  fed  upon 
her  judicious  and  learned  writers — Taylor,  with  his  bright 
fancies  like  the  little  rings  of  the  vine ;  South,  hitting 
out  straight  from  the  shoulder  at  anarchy,  fanaticism,  and 
licentiousness,  as  Southey  himself  would  have  liked  to 
hit;  Jackson,  whose  weight  of  character  made  his  pages 
precious  as  with  golden  bullion.  After  all,  old  Sarum  had 
some  advantages  over  Utopia. 

The  English  Constitution  consisting  of  Church  and 
State,  it  seemed  to  Southey  an  absurdity  in  politics  to 
give  those  persons  power  in  the  State  whose  duty  it  is  to 
subvert  the  Church.  Admit  Catholics,  he  said,  to  every  of- 
fice of  trust,  emolument,  or  honour ;  only  never  admit  them 
into  Parliament.  "  The  arguments  about  equal  rights  are 
fit  only  for  a  schoolboy's  declamation ;  it  may  as  well  be 
said  that  the  Jew  has  a  right  to  be  a  bishop,  or  the  Quak- 
er an  admiral,  as  that  the  Roman  Catholic  has  a  right  to 
a  seat  in  the  British  Legislature ;  his  opinions  disqualify 
him."  To  call  this  a  question  of  toleration  was  impu- 
dence ;  Catholics  were  free  to  practise  the  rites  of  their 
religion  ;  they  had  the  full  and  free  use  of  the  press ;  per- 
fect toleration  was  granted  to  the  members  of  that  church, 
which,  wherever  dominant,  tolerates  no  other.  Catholic 
Emancipation   would   not   conciliate  Ireland;    the  great 


n.]  CHANGES  AND  EVENTS,  1803—1843.  166 

source  of  Irish  misery  had  been,  not  England's  power,  but 
her  weakness,  and  those  violences  to  which  weakness  re- 
sorts in  self-defence;  old  sores  were  not  to  be  healed  by 
the  admission  of  Catholic  demagogues  into  Parliament. 
The  measure  styled  Emancipation  would  assuredly  be  fol- 
lowed by  the  downfall  of  the  Protestant  Establishment  in 
Ireland,  and  by  the  spread  of  Catholicism  in  English  soci- 
ety. '  To  Pyrrhonists  one  form  of  faith  might  seem  as 
good  or  as  bad  as  the  other;  but  the  great  mass  of  the 
English  people  had  not  advanced  so  far  in  the  march  of 
intellect  as  to  perceive  no  important  difference  between 
Catholic  and  Protestant  doctrine,  or  between  Catholic  and 
Protestant  morality.  By  every  possible  means,  better  the 
condition  of  the  Irish  peasantry ;  give  them  employment 
in  public  works ;  facilitate,  for  those  who  desire  it,  the 
means  of  emigration;  extend  the  poor-laws  to  Ireland, 
and  lay  that  impost  on  absentees  in  such  a  proportion  as 
may  compensate,  in  some  degree,  for  their  non-residence ; 
educate  the  people;  execute  justice  and  maintain  peace, 
and  the  cry  of  Catholic  Emancipation  may  be  safely  disre- 
garded. 

So  Southey  pleaded  in  the  Quarterly  Review.  With 
reference  to  Emancipation  and  to  the  Reform  Bill,  he  and 
Wordsworth — who,  perhaps,  had  not  kept  themselves  suf- 
ficiently in  relation  with  living  men  and  the  public  senti- 
ment of  the  day — were  in  their  solitude  gifted  with  a  meas- 
ure of  the  prophetic  spirit,  which  in  some  degree  explains 
their  alarms.  For  the  prophet  who  knows  little  of  expe- 
diency and  nothing  of  the  manipulation  of  parties,  noth- 
ing of  the  tangled  skein  of  contending  interests,  sees  the 
future  in  its  moral  causes,  and  he  sees  it  in  a  vision.  But 
he  cannot  date  the  appearances  in  his  vision.  Battle,  and 
garments  rolled  in  blood,  and  trouble,  and  dimness  of  an- 


166  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

guish  pass  before  him,  and  he  proclaims  what  it  is  given 
him  to  see.  It  matters  not  a  little,  however,  in  the  actual 
event,  whether  the  battle  be  on  the  morrow  or  half  a  cen- 
tury hence;  and  the  prophet  furnishes  us  with  no  chro- 
nology, or  at  best  with  some  vague  time  and  times  and 
half  a  time.  New  forces  have  arisen  before  the  terrors  of 
his  prediction  come  to  pass,  and  therefore,  when  they  come 
to  pass,  their  effect  is  often  altogether  different  from  that 
anticipated.  Wordsworth  and  Southey  were  right  in  de- 
claring that  a  vast  and  formidable  change  was  taking  place 
in  the  England  of  their  day:  many  things  which  they, 
amid  incredulous  scoffs,  announced,  have  become  actual ; 
others  remain  to  be  fulfilled.  But  the  events  have  taken 
up  their  place  in  an  order  of  things  foreign  to  the  concep- 
tions of  the  prophets ;  the  fire  from  heaven  descends,  but 
meanwhile  we,  ingenious  sons  of  men,  have  set  up  a  light- 
ning-conductor. 

Southey  and  the  Quarterly  Review  were  often  spoken 
of  as  a  single  entity.  But  the  Review,  in  truth,  never  pre- 
cisely represented  his  feelings  and  convictions.  With  Gif- 
ford  he  had  no  literary  sympathies.  Gifford's  -  heart  was 
full  of  kindness,  says  Southey,  for  all  living  creatures  ex- 
cept authors ;  them  he  regarded  as  Isaac  Walton  did  the 
worm.  Against  the  indulgence  of  that  temper  Southey 
always  protested ;  yet  he  was  chosen  to  bear  the  reproach 
of  having  tortured  Keats,  and  of  having  anonymously  glo- 
rified himself  at  the  expense  of  Shelley.  Gifford's  omis- 
sions, additions,  substitutions,  often  caused  Southey's  arti- 
cle in  the  Review  to  be  very  unlike  the  article  which  he 
had  despatched  to  the  editor  in  manuscript.  Probably 
these  changes  were  often  made  on  warrantable  grounds. 
Southey's  confidence  in  his  own  opinions,  which  always 
seemed  to  him  to  be  based  upon  moral  principles,  was 


Ti.]  CHANGES  AND  EVENTS,  1803—1843.  157 

high ;  and  he  was  not  in  the  habit  of  diluting  his  ink. 
Phrases  which  sounded  well  in  the  library  of  Greta  Hall 
had  quite  another  sound  in  Mr.  Murray's  office  in  Fleet 
Street. 

On  arriving  in  London  for  a  short  visit  in  the  autumn 
of  1813,  Southey  learnt  that  the  Prince  Regent  wished  to 
confer  on  him  the  Laureateship,  vacant  by  the  death  of 
Pye.  Without  consulting  the  Regent,  Lord  Liverpool  had 
previously  directed  that  the  office  should  be  offered  to 
Walter  Scott.  On  the  moment  came  a  letter  from  Scott 
informing  Southey  that  he  had  declined  the  appointment, 
not  from  any  foolish  prejudice  against  holding  it,  but  be- 
cause he  was  already  provided  for,  and  would  not  engross 
emoluments  which  ought  to  be  awarded  to  a  man  of  let- 
ters who  had  no  other  views  in  life.  Southey  hesitated, 
having  ceased  for  several  years  to  produce  occasional  verses ; 
but  his  friend  Croker  assured  him  that  he  would  not  be 
compelled  to  write  odes  as  boys  write  exercises  at  stated 
times  on  stated  subjects ;  that  it  would  suffice  if  he  wrote 
on  great  public  events,  or  did  not  write,  as  the  spirit  moved 
him ;  and  thus  his  scruples  were  overcome.  In  a  little,  low, 
dark  room  in  the  purlieus  of  St.  James' — a  solitary  clerk 
being  witness — the  oath  was  duly  administered  by  a  fat 
old  gentleman-usher  in  full  buckle,  Robert  Southey  swear- 
ing to  be  a  faithful  servant  to  the  King,  to  reveal  all  trea- 
sons which  might  come  to  his  knowledge,  and  to  obey  the 
Lord  Chamberlain  in  all  matters  of  the  King's  service.  It 
was  Scott's  belief  that  his  generosity  had  provided  for  his 
poorer  brother  bard  an  income  of  three  or  four  hundred 
pounds  a  year.  In  reality  the  emolument  was  smaller 
and  the  task-work  more  irksome  than  had  been  supposed. 
The  tierce  of  Canary,  swilled  by  Ben  Jonson  and  his  po- 
etic sons,  had  been  wickedly  commuted  for  a  small  sum ; 


158  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

the  whole  net  income  amounted  to  901.  But  this,  "  the 
very  least  of  Providence's  mercies,"  as  a  poor  clergyman 
said  when  pronouncing  grace  over  a  herring,  secured  an 
important  happiness  for  Southey :  he  did  not  employ  it, 
as  Byron  puts  it,  to  butter  his  bread  on  both  sides ;  he 
added  twelve  pounds  to  it,  and  vested  it  forthwith  in  an 
insurance  upon  his  own  life.  "  I  have  never  felt  any  pain- 
ful anxiety  about  providing  for  my  family,  .  .  ."  he  writes 
to  Scott ;  "  but  it  is  with  the  deepest  feeling  of  thanksgiv- 
ing that  I  have  secured  this  legacy  for  my  wife  and  chil- 
dren, and  it  is  to  you  that  I  am  primarily  and  chiefly 
indebted." 

Croker's  assurance  was  too  hastily  given.  The  birthday 
Ode,  indeed,  fell  into  abeyance  during  the  long  malady  of 
George  III. ;  but  the  New- Year's  Ode  had  still  to  be  pro- 
vided. Southey  was  fortunate  in  1814;  events  worthy 
of  celebration  had  taken  place ;  a  dithyramb,  or  rather  an 
oration  in  lines  of  irregular  length,  was  accordingly  pro- 
duced, and  was  forwarded  to  his  musical  yoke-fellow,  Sir 
William  Parsons.  But  the  sight  of  Southey's  page,  over 
which  the  longs  and  shorts  meandered  seemingly  at  their 
own  sweet  will,  shocked  the  orderly  mind  of  the  chief 
musician.  What  kind  of  ear  could  Mr.  Southey  have  ? 
His  predecessor,  the  lamented  Mr.  Pye,  had  written  his 
Odes  always  in  regular  stanzas.  What  kind  of  action 
was  this  exhibited  by  the  unbroken  State  Pegasus  ?  Duly 
as  each  New  Year  approached,  Southey  set  himself  to  what 
he  called  his  odeons  job  ;  it  was  the  price  he  paid  for  the 
future  comfort  of  his  children.  While  his  political  assail- 
ants pictured  the  author  of  Joan  of  Arc  as  a  court-lacquey 
following  in  the  train  of  the  fat  Adonis,  he,  with  grim 
cheerfulness,  was  earning  a  provision  for  his  girls ;  and  had 
it  not  been  a  duty  to  kiss  hands  on  the  appointment,  His 


Ti.]  CHANGES  AND  EVENTS,  1803—1843.  159 

Royal  Highness  the  Prince  Regent  would  never  have  seen 
his  poet.  Gradually  the  New -Year's  Ode  ceased  to  be 
looked  for,  and  Southey  was  emancipated.  His  verse^ 
making  as  laureate  occasionally  rose  into  something  high' 
er  than  journeyman  work  ;  when  public  events  stirred  his 
heart  to  joy,  or  grief,  or  indignation,  he  wrote  many  ad' 
mirable  periods  of  measured  rhetoric.  The  Funeral  Song 
for  the  Princess  Charlotte  is  of  a  higher  strain  ;  a  knell, 
heavy  yet  clear-toned,  is  tolled  by  its  finely  wrought  octo- 
syllabics. 

A  few  months  after  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  which  had 
so  deeply  moved  Southey,  he  started  with  his  wife,  a  rare 
voyager  from  Keswick,  and  his  little  daughter  Edith  May, 
on  a  pilgrimage  to  the  scene  of  victory.  The  aunts  re- 
mained to  take  care  of  Bertha,  Kate,  and  Isabel,  with  the 
■nine-years-old  darling  of  all,  the  only  boy,  Herbert.  With 
Bruges,  "  like  a  city  of  Elizabeth's  age — you  expect  to  see 
a  head  with  a  rufi  looking  from  the  window,"  Southey  was 
beyond  measure  delighted.  At  Ghent  he  ransacked  book- 
shops, and  was  pleased  to  see  in  the  Beguinage  the  realiza- 
tion of  his  own  and  Rickman's  ideas  on  Sisterhoods.  On  a 
clear  September  day  the  travellers  visited  the  battlefield ; 
the  autumnal  sunshine  with  soft  airs,  and  now  and  again  a 
falling  leaf,  while  the  bees  were  busy  with  the  year's  last 
flowers,  suited  well  with  the  poet's  mood  of  thankfulness, 
tempered  by  solemn  thought.  When,  early  in  December, 
they  returned  with  a  lading  of  toys  to  their  beloved  lake- 
country,  little  Edith  had  hardly  recovered  from  an  illness 
which  had  attacked  her  at  Aix.  It  was  seven  o'clock  in  the 
evening  by  the  time  they  reached  Rydal,  and  to  press  for- 
ward and  arrive  while  the  children  were  asleep  would  be  to 
defraud  everyone  of  the  first  reward  earned  by  so  long  ab- 
sence.    "  A  return  home  under  fortunate  circumstances  has 


160  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

something  of  the  character  of  a  triumph,  and  requires  day- 
light." The  glorious  presence  of  Skiddaw,  and  Derwent 
bright  under  the  winter  sky,  asked  also  for  a  greeting  at 
noon  rather  than  at  night.  A  depth  of  grave  and  tender 
thankfulness  lay  below  Southey's  joy  that  morning ;  it  was 
twelve  years  since  he  had  pitched  his  tent  here  beside  the 
Greta ;  twelve  years  had  made  him  feel  the  touch  of  time  ; 
but  what  blessings  they  had  brought !  all  his  heart's  desire 
was  here — books,  children,  leisure,  and  a  peace  that  pass- 
eth  understanding.  The  instant  hour,  however,  was  not  for 
meditation  but  for  triumph : — 

*'  O  joyful  hour,  when  to  our  longing  home 

The  long-expected  wheels  at  length  drew  nigh ! 
When  the  first  sound  went  forth, '  they  come !  they  come.'' 

And  hope's  impatience  quicken'd  eveiy  eye ! 
'  Never  had  man  whom  Heaven  would  heap  with  bliss 
More  glad  return,  more  happy  hour  than  this.' 

^'  Aloft  on  yonder  bench,  with  arms  dispread. 

My  boy  stood,  shouting  there  his  father's  name, 

Waving  his  hat  around  his  happy  head ; 
And  there  a  younger  group  his  sisters  came : 

Smiling  they  stood  with  looks  of  pleased  surprise 

While  tears  of  joy  were  seen  in  elder  eyes. 

"  Soon  all  and  each  came  crowding  round  to  share 
The  cordial  greeting,  the  beloved  sight ; 
What  welcomings  of  hand  and  lip  were  there ! 

And  when  those  overflowings  of  delight 
Subsided  to  a  sense  of  quiet  bliss, 
Life  hath  no  purer,  deeper  happiness. 

"  The  young  companion  of  our  weary  way  ' 

Found  here  the  end  desired  of  all  her  ills; 
She  who  in  sickness  pining  many  a  day 
Hunger'd  and  thirsted  for  her  native  hills. 


n.]  CHANGES  AND  EVENTS,  1803—1843.  161 

Forgetful  now  of  suflFering  past  and  pain, 
Rejoiced  to  see  her  own  dear  home  again. 

"Recovered  now  the  homesick  mountaineer 

Sate  by  the  playmate  of  her  infancy. 
The  twin-like  comrade,* — render'd  doubly  dear 

For  that  long  absence ;  full  of  life  was  she 
With  voluble  discourse  and  eager  mien 
Telling  of  all  the  wonders  she  had  seen. 

*'  Here  silently  between  her  parents  stood 
My  dark-eyed  Bertha,  timid  as  a  dove ; 
And  gently  oft  from  time  to  time  she  woo'd 
Pressure  of  hand,  or  word,  or  look  of  love, 
With  impulse  shy  of  bashful  tenderness. 
Soliciting  again  the  wished  caress. 

"  The  younger  twain  in  wonder  lost  were  they, 
My  gentle  Kate  and  my  sweet  Isabel  : 
Long  of  our  promised  coming,  day  by  day. 

It  had  been  their  delight  to  hear  and  tell ; 
And  now  when  that  long-promised  hour  was  come, 
Surprise  and  wakening  memory  held  them  dumb. 


"  Soon  they  grew  blithe  as  they  were  wont  to  be ; 

Her  old  endearments  each  began  to  seek ; 
And  Isabel  drew  near  to  climb  my  knee, 

And  pat  with  fondling  hand  her  father's  cheek ; 
With  voice  and  touch  and  look  reviving  thus 
The  feelings  which  had  slept  in  long  disuse. 

"  But  there  stood  one  whose  heart  could  entertain 
And  comprehend  the  fulness  of  the  joy; 
The  father,  teacher,  playmate,  was  again 
Come  to  his  only  and  his  studious  boy ; 

'  Sara  Coleridge. 


162  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

And  he  beheld  again  that  mother's  eye  ■ 

Which  with  such  ceaseless  care  had  watched  his  infancy.  ' 

"  Bring  forth  the  treasures  now — a  proud  display — 

For  rich  as  Eastern  merchants  we  return  I  i 
Behold  the  black  Beguine,  the  Sister  grey, 

The  Friars  whose  heads  with  sober  motion  turn,  ' 

The  Ark  well  filled  with  all  its  numerous  hives,  , 
Noah,  and  Shem,  and  Ham,  and  Japhet,  and  their  wives. 

"  The  tumbler  loose  of  limb ;  the  wrestlers  twain ;  : 

And  many  a  toy  beside  of  quaint  device,  [ 

Which,  when  his  fleecy  flocks  no  more  can  gain  ; 

Their  pasture  on  the  mountains  hoar  with  ice,  ''' 

The  German  shepherd  carves  with  curious  knife, 

Earning  in  easy  toil  the  food  of  frugal  life.         ^ 

"  It  was  a  group  which  Richter,  had  he  viewed. 

Might  have  deemed  worthy  of  his  perfect  skill ;  : 

The  keen  impatience  of  the  younger  brood,  , 

Their  eager  eyes  and  fingers  never  still ;  ' 

The  hope,  the  wonder,  and  the  restless  joy  : 
Of  those  glad  girls  and  that  vociferous  boy. 

•'  The  aged  friend'  serene  with  quiet  smile,  ] 

Who  in  their  pleasure  finds  her  own  delight ;  ; 

The  mother's  heart-felt  happiness  the  while ;  ; 

The  aunt's  rejoicing  in  the  joyful  sight;  i 

And  he  who  in  his  gaiety  of  heart,  | 

With  glib  and  noisy  tongue  performed  the  showman's  part."  ; 

It  was  manifest  to  a  thoughtful  observer,  says  De  Quin-  | 

cey,  that  Southey's  golden  equanimity  was  bound  up  in  a  \ 

trinity  of  chords,  a  threefold  chain — in  a  conscience  clear  j 

of  offence,  in  the  recurring  enjoyments  from  his  honoura-  ; 
ble  industry,  and  in  the  gratification  of  his  parental  affec- 

'  Mrs.  Wilson — then  aged  serenty-two.  -, 


VI.]  CHANGES  AND  EVENTS,  1803—1843.  163 

tions.  In  the  light  of  Herbert's  smiles  his  father  ahnost 
lived ;  the  very  pulses  of  his  heart  played  in  unison  with 
the  sound  of  his  son's  laughter.  "  There  was,"  Dc  Quincey 
goes  on,  "  in  his  manner  towards  this  child,  and  towards 
this  only,  something  that  marked  an  excess  of  delirious 
doating,  perfectly  unlike  the  ordinary  chastened  movement 
of  Southey's  affections  ;  and  something  also  which  indi- 
cated a  vague  fear  about  him ;  a  premature  unhappiness, 
as  if  already  the  inaudible  tread  of  calamity  could  be  di- 
vined, as  if  already  he  had  lost  him."  As  a  baby,  while 
Edith  Avas  only  "  like  an  old  book,  ugly  and  good,"  Her- 
bert, in  spite  of  his  Tartar  eyes,  a  characteristic  of  Southey 
babyhood,  was  already  beautiful.  At  six  he  was  more  gen- 
tle and  more  loving,  says  Southey,  than  you  can  almost 
conceive.  "  He  has  just  learnt  his  Greek  alphabet,  and  is 
so  desirous  of  learning,  so  attentive  and  so  quick  of  appre- 
hension, that,  if  it  please  God  he  should  live,  there  is  lit- 
tle doubt  but  that  something  will  come  out  of  him."  In 
April,  1809,  Southey  writes  to  Landor,  twenty-four  hours 
after  an  attack  of  croup  which  seized  his  boy  had  been 
subdued :  "  Even  now  I  am  far,  very  far,  from  being  at 
ease.  There  is  a  love  which  passeth  the  love  of  women, 
and  which  is  more  lightly  alarmed  than  the  lightest  jeal- 
ousy. Landor,  I  am  not  a  Stoic  at  home ;  I  feel  as  you 
do  about  the  fall  of  an  old  tree !  but,  O  Christ !  what  a 
pang  it  is  to  look  upon  the  young  shoot  and  think  it  will 
be  cut  down  !  And  this  is  the  thought  which  almost  at  all 
times  haunts  me;  it  comes  upon  me  in  moments  when  I 
know  not  whether  the  tears  that  start  are  of  love  or  of 
bitterness." 

The  alarm  of  1809  passed  away,  and  Herbert  grew  to 
the  age  of  nine,  active  and  bright  of  spirit,  yet  too  pale, 
and,  like  his  father,  hanging  too  constantly  over  his  books ; 


164  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

a  finely  organized  being,  delicate  in  Lis  sensibilities,  and 
prematurely  accomplisbed.  Before  the  snow  had  melted 
which  shone  on  Skiddaw  that  day  when  the  children  wel- 
comed home  their  parents,  Herbert  Southey  lay  in  his 
grave.  His  disease  was  an  affection  of  the  heart,  and  for 
weeks  his  father,  palsied  by  apprehension,  and  unable  to 
put  hand  to  his  regular  work,  stood  by  the  bedside,  with 
composed  countenance,  with  words  of  hope,  and  agonized 
heart.  Each  day  of  trial  made  his  boy  more  dear.  With 
a,  trembling  pride  Southey  saw  the  sufferer's  behaviour, 
beautiful  in  this  illness  as  in  all  his  life ;  nothing  could 
be  more  calm,  more  patient,  more  collected,  more  dutiful, 
more  admirable.  At  last,  worn  with  watching,  Southey 
and  his  wife  were  prevailed  upon  to  lie  down.  The  good 
Mary  Barker  watched,  and  it  is  she  who  writes  the  follow- 
ing lines:  —  "Herbert!  —  that  sweetest  and  most  perfect 
of  all  children  on  this  earth,  who  died  in  my  arms  at  nine 
years  of  age,  whose  death  I  announced  to  his  father  and 
mother  in  their  bed,  where  I  had  prayed  and  persuaded 
them  to  go.  When  Southey  could  speak,  his  first  words 
were,  *  The  Lord  hath  given,  and  the  Lord  hath  taken  away. 
Blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord  P  Never  can  I  forget  that 
moment"  (1816). 

"I  am  perfectly  resigned,"  Southey  wrote  to  Bedford 
on  the  most  mournful  of  all  days,  "and  do  not  give  way 
to  grief.  Thank  God  I  can  control  myself  for  the  sake  of 
others."  But  next  morning  found  him  weak  as  a  child, 
even  weaker  in  body  than  in  mind,  for  long  anxiety  had 
worn  him  to  the  bone,  and  while  he  tried  to  calm  and  con- 
sole the  rest,  his  limbs  trembled  under  him.  His  first  wild 
wish  to  fly  from  Keswick  passed  away ;  it  was  good  to  be 
there  near  the  boy's  grave.  Weak  as  he  was,  he  flung 
himself  upon  his  work.      "  I  employ  myself  incessantly, 


VI.]  CHANGES  AND  EVENTS,  1803—1843.  165 

taking,  however,  every  day  as  much  exercise  as  I  can  bear 
without  injurious  fatigue,  which  is  not  much,"  "  It  would 
Surprise  you  were  you  to  see  what  I  get  through  in  a  day." 
*'  For  the  first  week  I  did  as  much  every  day  as  would  at 
other  times  have  seemed  the  full  and  overflowing  produce 
of  three."  From  his  early  discipline  in  the  stoical  philos- 
ophy some  help  now  was  gained  ;  from  his  active  and  elas- 
tic mind  the  gain  was  more ;  but  these  would  have  been 
insuflScient  to  support  him  without  a  heart-felt  and  ever- 
present  faith  that  what  he  had  lost  was  not  lost  for  ever. 
A  great  change  had  indeed  come  upon  him.  He  set  his 
house  in  order,  and  made  arrangements  as  if  his  own 
death  were  at  hand.  He  resolved  not  to  be  unhappy,  but 
the  joyousness  of  his  disposition  had  received  its  death- 
wound  ;  he  felt  as  if  he  had  passed  at  once  from  boyhood 
to  the  decline  of  life.  He  tried  dutifully  to  make  head 
against  his  depression,  but  at  times  with  poor  success.  "I 
employ  myself,  and  have  recovered  strength,  but  in  point 
of  spirits  I  rather  lose  ground."  Still,  there  are  hidden 
springs  of  comfort.  "  The  head  and  flower  of  my  earthly 
happiness  is  cut  off.  But  I  am  not  unhappy."  "  When  I 
give  way  to  tears,  which  is  only  in  darkness  or  solitude, 
they  are  not  tears  of  unmingled  pain."  All  beloved  ones 
grew  more  precious ;  the  noble  fortitude  of  his  wife  made 
her  more  than  ever  a  portion  of  his  best  self.  His  uncle's 
boy,  Edward,  he  could  not  love  more  than  he  had  loved 
him  before  ;  but,  "  as  far  as  possible,  he  will  be  to  me  here- 
after," writes  Southey,  "  in  the  place  of  my  son."  And  in 
truth  the  blessing  of  Herbert's  boyhood  remained  with  him 
still ;  a  most  happy,  a  most  beautiful  boyhood  it  had  been  ; 
he  was  thankful  for  having  possessed  the  child  so  long; 
"  for  worlds  I  would  not  but  have  been  his  father."  **  I 
have  abundant  blessings  left ;  for  each  and  all  of  these  I 


166  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

am  truly  thankful ;  but  of  all  the  blessings  which  God  has 
given  me,  this  child,  who  is  removed,  is  the  one  I  still  prize 
the  most."  To  relieve  feelings  which  he  dared  not  utter 
with  his  lips,  he  thought  of  setting  about  a  monument  in 
verse  for  Herbert  and  himself,  which  might  make  one  in- 
separable memory  for  father  and  son.  A  page  or  two  of 
fragmentary  thoughts  in  verse  and  prose  for  this  poetic 
monument  exists,  but  Southey  could  not  keep  his  imagi- 
nation enough  above  his  heart  to  dare  to  go  on  with  it; 
to  do  so  would  have  dissolved  his  heart  anew.  One  or  two 
of  these  holy  scriptures  of  woe,  truly  red  drops  of  South- 
ey's  life  -  blood,  will  tell  enough  of  this  love  passing  the 
love  of  women. 

"  Thy  life  was  a  day ;  and  sum  it  well,  life  is  but  a  week  of 
such  days — with  how  much  storm  and  cold  and  darkness ! 
Thine  was  a  sweet  spring  day — a  vernal  Sabbath,  all  sun- 
shine, hope,  and  promise." 

"  And  that  name 
In  sacred  silence  buried,  which  was  still 
At  mom  and  eve  the  never-wearying  theme 
Of  dear  discourse." 


"Playful  thoughts 
Turned  now  to  gall  and  esil." 


"  No  more  great  attempts,  only  a  few  autunmal  flowers  like 

onnrl  nrimroaea.  etn." 


ceond  primroses,  etc." 


"  They  who  look  for  me  in  our  Father's  kingdom 
Will  look  for  him  also ;  inseparably 
Shall  we  be  remembered." 


"  Come,  then. 
Pain  and  Infirmity — appointed  guests. 
My  heart  is  ready." 


vl]  changes  and  events,  1803—1843.  167 

From  the  day  of  his  son's  death  Southey  began  to  step 
down  from  the  heights  of  life,  with  a  steadfast  foot,  and 
head  still  held  erect.  He  recovered  cheerfulness,  but  it 
was  as  one  who  has  undergone  an  amputation  seeks  the 
sunshine.  Herbert's  grave  anchored  him  in  Keswick.  An 
offer  of  2000Z.  a  year  for  a  daily  article  in  the  Times  did 
not  tempt  him  to  London.  His  home,  his  books,  his 
literary  work,  Skiddaw,  Derwentwater,  and  Crosthwaite 
churchyard  were  too  dear.  Three  years  later  came  the 
unlooked-for  birth  of  a  second  boy ;  and  Cuthbert  was 
loved  by  his  father ;  but  the  love  was  chastened  and  con- 
trolled of  autumnal  beauty  and  seriousness. 

When  the  war  with  France  had  ended,  depression  of 
trade  was  acutely  felt  in  England ;  party  spirit  ran  high, 
and  popular  passions  were  dangerously  roused.  In  the 
spring  of  1817,  the  Laureate  saw  to  his  astonishment  a 
poem  entitled  Wat  Tyler,  by  Kobert  Southey,  advertised 
as  just  published.  He  had  written  this  lively  dramatic 
sketch  in  the  full  fervour  of  Republicanism  twenty-three 
years  previously ;  the  manuscript  had  passed  into  other 
hands,  and  he  had  long  ceased  to  think  of  it.  The  skulk- 
ing rogue  and  the  knavish  publisher  who  now  gave  it  to 
the  world  had  chosen  their  time  judiciously ;  this  rebuke 
to  the  apostate  of  the  Quarterly  would  be  a  sweet  morsel 
for  gossip-mongers  to  roll  under  the  tongue,  an  infallible 
pill  to  purge  melancholy  with  all  true  children  of  progress. 
No  fewer  than  sixty  thousand  copies,  it  is  said,  were  sold. 
Wat  Tyler  suited  well  with  Southey's  nonage ;  it  has  a 
bright  rhetorical  fierceness  of  humanity.  The  speech-mak- 
ing radical  blacksmith,  *'  still  toiling,  yet  still  poor,"  his  in- 
sulted daughter,  her  virtuous  lover,  the  communist  priest 
John  Ball,  whose  amiable  theology  might  be  that  of  Mr. 
Belsham  in  his  later  days,  stand  over  against  the  tyrant 


168  SOtJTHEY.  [chap. 

king,  his  Archiepiscopal  absolver  from  oatlis,  the  haughty 
nobles,  and  the  servile  minions  of  the  law.  There  was 
nothing  in  the  poem  that  could  be  remembered  with 
shame,  unless  it  is  shameful  to  be  generous  and  inexperi- 
enced at  the  age  of  twenty.  But  England  in  1817  seem- 
ed charged  with  combustibles,  and  even  so  small  a  spark 
as  this  was  not  to  be  blown  about  without  a  care.  The 
Prince  Kegent  had  been  fired  at;  there  were  committals 
for  treason  ;  there  were  riots  in  Somersetshire  ;  the  swarm 
of  Manchester  Blanketeers  announced  a  march  to  London ; 
the  Habeas  Corpus  was  suspended;  before  the  year  was 
out,  Brandreth  and  his  fellows  had  been  executed  at  Der- 
by. Southey  applied  to  the  Court  of  Chancery  for  an  in- 
junction to  restrain  the  publication  of  his  poem.  It  was 
refused  by  Lord  Eldon,  on  the  ground  that  the  publica- 
tion being  one  calculated  to  do  injury  to  society,  the  au- 
thor could  not  reclaim  his  property  in  it.  There  the  mat- 
ter might  have  dropped ;  but  it  seemed  good  to  Mr.  Wil- 
liam Smith,  representing  liberal  Norwich,  where  Southey 
had  many  friends,  to  take  his  seat  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons one  evening  with  the  Quarterly/  Review  in  one  pock- 
et and  Wat  Tyler  in  the  other,  and  to  read  aloud  con- 
trasted extracts  showing  how  the  malignant  renegade  could 
play  the  parts,  as  it  suited  him,  of  a  seditious  firebrand 
and  a  servile  courtier.  Wynn  on  the  spot  administered  a 
well-deserved  rebuke ;  Wilberforce  wrote  to  Southey  that, 
had  he  been  present,  his  voice  would  also  have  been  heard. 
Coleridge  vindicated  him  in  the  Courier.  Seldom,  indeed, 
was  Southey  drawn  into  controversy.  When  pelted  with 
abuse,  he  walked  on  with  uplifted  head,  and  did  not  turn 
round ;  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  of  a  stature  to  in- 
vite bespattering.  His  self-confidence  was  high  and  calm ; 
that  he  possessed  no  common  abilities,  was  certain :  and 


Ti.]  CHANGES  AND  EVENTS,  1803—1843.  169 

the  amount  of  toil  wluch  went  into  his  books  gave  him  a 
continual  assurance  of  their  worth  which  nothing  could 
gainsay ;  he  had  no  time  for  moods  of  dejection  and  self- 
distrust.  But  if  Southey  struck,  he  struck  with  force, 
and  tried  to  leave  his  mark  on  his  antagonist.  To  repel 
this  attack  made  in  the  House  of  Commons,  was  a  duty. 
A  Letter  to  William  Smith,  Esq.,  M.P.,  was  written,  as 
Wordsworth  wished,  with  the  strength  of  masculine  indig- 
nation ;  blow  after  blow  is  planted  with  sure  effect ;  no 
word  is  wasted;  there  is  skill  in  the  hard  hitting;  and 
the  antagonist  fairly  overthrown,  Southey,  with  one  glance 
of  scorn,  turns  on  his  heel,  and  moves  lightly  away.  "  I 
Tvish  you  joy,"  wrote  Walter  Scott,  "  of  your  triumphant 
answer.  .  .  .  Enough  of  this  gentleman,  who  I  think  will 
not  walk  out  of  the  round  again  to  slander  the  conduct  of 
individuals."  The  concluding  sentences  of  the  Letter  give 
in  brief  Southey's  fearless  review  of  his  unstained  career. 

"  How  far  the  writings  of  Mr.  Southey  may  be  found  to  de- 
serve a  favourable  acceptance  from  after-ages,  time  will  de- 
cide ;  but  a  name  which,  whether  worthily  or  not,  has  been 
conspicuous  in  the  literary  history  of  its  age,  will  certainly 
not  perish.  ...  It  will  be  related  that  he  lived  in  the  bosom 
of  his  family,  in  absolute  retirement ;  that  in  all  his  writings 
there  breathed  the  same  abhorrence  of  oppression  and  immo*- 
rality,  the  same  spirit  of  devotion,  and  the  same  ardent  wishes 
for  the  melioration  of  mankind ;  and  that  the  only  charge 
which  malice  could  bring  against  him  was,  that  as  he  grew 
older,  his  opinions  altered  concerning  the  means  by  which 
that  melioration  was  to  be  effected,  and  that  as  he  learnt  to 
understand  the  institutions  of  his  country,  he  learnt  to  appro- 
ciate  them  rightly,  to  love,  and  to  revere,  and  to  defend  them. 
It  will  be  said  of  him  that  in  an  age  of  personality  he  ab- 
stained from  satire ;  and  that  during  the  course  of  his  liter- 
ary life,  often  as  he  was  assailed,  the  only  occasion  on  which 
M     8*  ^^ 


110  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

he  ever  condescended  to  reply  was  when  a  certain  Mr.  Wil- 
liam Smith  insulted  him  in  Parliament  with  the  appellation 
of  renegade.  On  that  occasion,  it  will  be  said,  he  vindicated 
himself,  as  it  became  him  to  do,  and  treated  his  calumniator 
with  just  and  memorable  severity.  Whether  it  shall  be  add- 
ed that  Mr.  William  Smith  redeemed  his  own  character  by 
coming  forward  with  honest  manliness,  and  acknowledging 
but  is  not  of  the  slightest  importance  to  me." 

One  other  personal  strife  is  worthy  of  notice.  When 
visiting  London  in  1813,  he  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Byron.  "  Is  Southey  magnanimous  ?"  Byron  asked  Rog- 
ers, remembering  how  he  had  tried  his  wit  in  early  days 
on  Thalaha  and  Madoc.  Rogers  could  answer  for  South- 
ey's  magnanimity,  and  the  two  poets  met,  Southey  finding 
in  Byron  very  much  more  to  like  than  he  had  expected, 
and  Byron  being  greatly  stnick  by  Southey's  "epic  ap- 
pearance." "  To  have  that  poet's  head  and  shoulders,"  he 
said,  "  I  would  almost  have  written  his  Sapphics."  And 
in  his  diary  he  wrote : — "  Southey's  talents  are  of  the  first 
order.  His  prose  is  perfect.  .  .  .  He  has  probably  written 
too  much  of  poetry  for  the  present  generation ;  posterity 
will  probably  select;  but  he  has  passages  equal  to  any- 
thing." At  a  later  date  Byron  thought  Southey's  Roder- 
ick "the  first  poem  of  the  time."  But  when  about  to 
publish  Don  Juan,  a  work  "  too  free  for  these  very  modest 
days,"  what  better  mode  of  saucily  meeting  public  opin- 
ion, and  getting  a  first  laugh  on  his  side,  than  to  dedicate 
such  a  poem  to  a  virtuous  Laureate,  and  show  that  he  and 
his  fellows,  who  had  uttered  nothing  base,  were  yet  politi- 
cal turncoats,  not  entitled  by  any  superfine  morality  to  as- 
sume airs  of  indignation  against  him  and  his  reprobate 
hero  ?     The  dedication  was  shown  about  and  laughed  over, 


Ti.]  CHANGES  AND  EVENTS,  1803—1843.  171 

though  not  yet  printed.  Southey  heard  of  these  things, 
and  felt  released  from  that  restraint  of  good  feeling  which 
made  him  deal  tenderly  in  his  writings  with  every  one  to 
whom  he  had  once  given  his  hand.  An  attack  upon  him- 
self would  not  alone  have  roused  Southey ;  no  man  re- 
ceived abuse  with  more  self-possession.  Political  antago- 
nism would  still  have  left  him  able  to  meet  a  fellow-poet 
on  the  common  ground  of  literature.  When  distress  fast- 
ened upon  Leigh  Hunt,  whose  Examiner  and  Liberal  had 
never  spared  the  Laureate,  Mr.  Forster  did  not  hesitate  to 
apply  to  Southey  for  assistance,  which  was  declined  solely 
"because  the  circular  put  forward  Leigh  Hunt's  political 
services  as  those  chiefly  entitling  him  to  relief.  "Those 
who  are  acquainted  with  me,"  Southey  wrote,  "  know  that 
I  am  neither  resentful  nor  intolerant ;"  and  after  expressing 
admiration  of  Leigh  Hunt's  powers,  the  letter  goes  on  to 
suggest  that  his  friends  should  draw  up  a  circular  in  which, 
without  compromising  any  of  his  opinions,  the  appeal 
might  be  made  solely  upon  the  score  of  literary  merit, 
"  placing  him  thus,  as  it  were,  within  the  sacred  territory 
which  ought  always  to  be  considered  and  respected  as 
neutral  ground."  Wise  and  admirable  words !  But  there 
was  one  offence  which  was  to  Southey  the  unforgivable 
sin  against  the  holy  spirit  of  a  nation's  literature.  To  en- 
tice poetry  from  the  altar,  and  to  degrade  her  for  the  pleas- 
ure of  wanton  imaginations,  seemed  to  Southey,  feeling  as 
he  did  the  sanctity  of  the  love  of  husband  and  wife,  of  fa- 
ther and  child,  to  be  treason  against  humanity.  Southey 
was,  indeed,  tolerant  of  a  certain  Rabelaisian  freedom  in 
playing  with  some  of  the  enclosed  incidents  of  our  life. 
"  All  the  greatest  of  poets,"  he  says,  *'  have  had  a  spice  of 
Pantagruelism  in  their  composition,  which  I  verily  believe 
was  essential  to  their  greatness."     But  to  take  an  extrava- 


172  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

gant  fling  in  costume  of  a  sans-culotte,  and  to  play  the  part 
of  "  pander-general  to  the  youth  of  Great  Britain,"  were 
different  things.  In  his  preface  to  A  Vision  of  Judgment, 
Southey  deplored  the  recent  fall  in  the  ethical  spirit  of 
English  literature,  "  which  for  half  a  century  had  been  dis- 
tinguished for  its  moral  purity,"  and  much  of  the  guilt  he 
laid  on  the  leaders  of  "  the  Satanic  School."  In  the  long- 
run  the  interests  of  art,  as  of  all  high  endeavour,  are  in- 
variably proved  to  be  one  with  the  interest  of  a  nation's 
morality.  It  had  taken  many  lives  of  men  to  lift  liter- 
ature out  of  the  beast.  From  prudential  virtue  and  the 
lighter  ethics  of  Addison  it  had  risen  to  the  grave  moral 
dignity  of  Johnson,  and  from  that  to  the  impassioned  spir- 
ituality of  Wordsworth.  Should  all  this  be  abandoned, 
and  should  literature  now  be  permitted  to  reel  back  into 
the  brute?  We  know  that  the  title  "Satanic  School" 
struck  home,  that  Byron  was  moved,  and  replied  with  brill- 
iant play  of  wit  in  his  Vision  of  Judgment.  The  laugh- 
ers went  over  to  Byron's  side.  One  who  would  be  witty 
has  certain  advantages,  if  content  to  disregard  honesty  and 
good  manners.  To  be  witty  was  not  Southey's  concern. 
"  I  saw,"  he  said,  many  years  after,  "  that  Byron  was  a 
man  of  quick  impulses,  strong  passions,  and  great  powers. 
I  saw  him  abuse  these  powers ;  and,  looking  at  the  effect 
of  his  writings  on  the  public  mind,  it  was  my  duty  to  de- 
nounce such  of  them  as  aimed  at  the  injury  of  morals  and 
religion.  This  was  all."  If  continental  critics  find  in 
what  he  set  down  a  characteristic  example  of  the  bourgeois 
morality  of  England,  we  note  with  interest  their  point  of 
view.* 

'  To  certain  false  allegations  of  fact  made  by  Byron,  Southey  re- 
plied in  The  Courier,  and  reprinted  his  letters  in  Essays,  Moral  and 
Political,  vol  ii.  pp.  183-205. 


n.]  CHAJS'GES  AND  EVENTS,  1803—1843.  173 

"Bertha,  Kate,  and  Isabel,"  wrote  Southey  on  June  26, 
1820,  "you  have  been  very  good  girls,  and  have  written 
me  very  nice  letters,  with  which  I  was  much  pleased- 
This  is  the  last  letter  which  I  can  write  in  return ;  and  as 
I  happen  to  have  a  quiet  hour  to  myself  here  at  Streatham, 
on  Monday  noon,  I  will  employ  that  hour  in  relating  to 
you  the  whole  history  and  manner  of  my  being  ell-ell-deed 
at  Oxford  by  the  Vice-Chancellor."  Public  distinctions  of 
this  kind  he  rated,  perhaps^  below  their  true  value.  To 
stand  well  with  Murray  and  Longman  was  more  to  him 
than  any  handle  to  his  name.  A  similar  honour  from 
Cambridge  he  declined.  His  gold  medal  from  the  Royal 
Society  of  Literature  he  changed  for  a  silver  coifee-pot  for 
Mrs.  Southey.  To  "  be  be-doctored  and  called  everything 
that  ends  in  issimus,"  was  neither  any  harm  nor  much 
good;  but  to  take  his  seat  between  such  doctors  as  the 
Duke  of  Wellington,  and — perhaps — Sir  Walter  Scott  was 
a  temptation.  When  his  old  school  -  fellow  Phillimore 
presented  Southey,  the  theatre  rang  with  applause.  Yet 
the  day  was,  indeed,  one  of  the  heaviest  in  his  life.  Never 
had  he  stopped  for  a  night  in  Oxford  since  he  left  it  in 
1794,  intending  to  bid  farewell  to  Europe  for  an  Utopia 
in  some  back  settlement  of  America.  Not  one  who  really 
loved  him  —  for  Scott  could  not  appear — was  present 
When  in  the  morning  he  went  to  look  at  Balliol,  no  one 
remembered  him  except  old  Adams,  who  had  attempted 
to  dress  his  hair  as  a  freshman,  and  old  Mrs.  Adams,  the 
laundress,  both  now  infirm.  From  the  tumultuous  theatre 
Southey  strolled  into  Christ  Church  walks  alone.  What 
changes  time  had  made !  Many  of  the  friends  with  whom 
he  had  sauntered  there  were  in  their  graves.  So  brooding^ 
he  chewed  the  bitter-sweet  of  remembrance,  until  at  length 
a  serious  gratitude  prevailed.     "  Little  girls,"  the  letter 


174  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

ends,  "  you  know  it  might  be  proper  for  me  now  to  wear 
a  large  wig,  and  to  be  called  Doctor  Southey,  and  to  be- 
come very  severe,  and  leave  oS.  being  a  comical  papa. 
And  if  you  should  find  that  ell-ell-deeing  has  made  this 
difference  in  me,  you  will  not  be  surprised.  However,  I 
shall  not  come  down  in  my  wig,  neither  shall  I  wear  my 
robes  at  home." 

While  in  Holland,  in  the  summer  of  1826,  a  more  con- 
spicuous honour  was  unexpectedly  thrust  upon  Southey. 
The  previous  year  he  had  gone  abroad  with  Henry  Tay- 
lor, and  at  Douay  was  bitten  on  the  foot  by  Satan,  ac- 
cording to  his  conjecture,  sitting  squat  at  his  great  toe; 
at  Leyden  he  was  obliged  to  rest  his  inflamed  foot,  and 
there  it  was  his  good  fortune  to  be  received  into  the  house 
of  the  poet  Bilderdijk,  a  delightful  old  erudite  and  enthu- 
siast, whose  charming  wife  was  the  translator  of  Roderick. 
In  1826  he  visited  his  kind  friends  once  more,  and  at 
Brussels  received  the  surprising  intelligence  that  during 
his  absence  he  had  been  elected  a  member  of  Parliament. 
Lord  Radnor,  an  entire  stranger,  had  read  with  admiration 
Southey's  confession  of  faith  concerning  Church  and  State, 
in  the  last  paragraph  of  his  Book  of  the  Church.  By  his 
influence  the  poet  had  been  elected  for  the  borough  of 
Downton :  the  return,  however,  was  null,  for  Southey  held 
a  pension  during  pleasure ;  and  even  if  this  were  resigned, 
where  was  the  property  qualification?  This  latter  objec- 
tion was  met  by  Sir  Robert  Inglis,  who  desired  to  know 
whether  Southey  would  sit  in  Parliament  if  an  estate  of 
300/.  a  year  were  purchased  for  him.  An  estate  of  300/. 
a  year  would  be  a  very  agreeable  thing  to  Robert  Lack- 
land ;  but  he  had  no  mind  to  enter  on  a  new  public  sphere 
for  which  he  was  ill  qualified  by  his  previous  life,  to  risk 
the  loss  of  health  by  midnight  debates,  to  abandon  the 


VI.]  CHANGES  AND  EVENTS,  1803—1843.  175 

education  of  liis  little  boy,  and  to  separate  himself  more 
or  less  from  his  wife  and  daughters.  He  could  not  be 
wrong,  he  believed,  in  the  quiet  confidence  which  as- 
sured him  that  he  was  in  his  proper  place. 

Now  more  than  ever  before,  Edith  Southey  needed  her 
husband's  sustaining  love.  On  the  day  of  his  return  to  Kes- 
wick, while  amused  to  find  himself  the  object  of  mob  pop- 
ularity, he  learnt  that  one  of  his  daughters  was  ailing ;  the 
illness,  however,  already  seemed  to  have  passed  the  worst. 
This  appearance  of  amendment  quickly  proved  deceptive ; 
and,  on  a  Sunday  evening  in  mid  July,  Isabel,  "  the  most 
radiant  creature  that  I  ever  beheld  or  shall  behold,"  passed 
away,  while  her  father  was  on  his  knees  in  the  room  be- 
low, praying  that  she  might  be  released  from  suffering 
either  by  recovery  or  by  death.  All  that  had  been  gone 
through  ten  years  before,  renewed  itself  with  dread  exact* 
ness.  Now,  as  then,  the  first  day  was  one  of  stunned  in- 
sensibility;  now,  as  then,  the  next  morning  found  him 
weak  as  a  child,  and  striving  in  his  weakness  to  comfort 
those  who  needed  his  support;  now,  as  then,  he  turned  to 
Grosvenor  Bedford  for  a  heart  on  which  he  might  lay 
his  own  heart  prone,  letting  his  sorrow  have  its  way. 
"  Nothing  that  has  assailed  my  character,  or  affected  my 
worldly  fortune,  ever  gave  me  an  hour's  vexation,  or  de- 
prived me  of  an  hour's  rest.  My  happiness  has  been  in 
my  family,  and  there  only  was  I  vulnerable;  that  family 
is  now  divided  between  earth  and  heaven,  and  I  must  pray 
to  remain  with  those  who  are  left,  so  long  as  I  can  con- 
tribute to  their  welfare  and  comfort,  rather  than  be  gath- 
ered (as  otherwise  I  would  fain  be)  to  those  who  are 
gone."  On  that  day  of  which  the  word  TfreXttrrat  is  the 
record,  the  day  on  which  the  body  of  his  bright  Isabel 
was  committed  to  earth,  Southey  wrote  a  letter  to  his  three 


176  SOUTHEY.  [chap, 

living  daughters,  copied  with  his  own  hand  for  eacL  It 
said  what  he  could  not  bear  to  say  of  consolation  and 
admonishment  by  word  of  mouth ;  it  prepared  them  for 
the  inevitable  partings  to  come ;  it  urged  on  them  with 
measureless  tenderness  the  duty  of  self -watchfulness,  of 
guarding  against  little  faults,  of  bearing  and  forbearing; 
it  told  them  of  his  own  grief  to  think  that  he  should  ever 
by  a  harsh  or  hasty  word  have  given  their  dead  sister 
even  a  momentary  sorrow  which  might  have  been  spared ; 
it  ended  with  the  blessing  of  their  afflicted  father. 

Sorrows  of  this  kind,  as  Southey  has  truly  said,  come 
the  heavier  when  they  are  repeated ;  under  such  strokes 
a  courageous  heart  may  turn  coward.  On  Mrs.  Southey 
a  weight  as  of  years  had  been  laid ;  her  spirits  sank, 
her  firmness  gave  way,  a  breath  of  danger  shook  her. 
Southey's  way  of  bearing  himself  towards  the  dead  is  that 
saddest  way — their  names  were  never  uttered;  each  one 
of  the  household  had,  as  it  were,  a  separate  chamber  in 
which  the  images  of  their  dead  ones  lay,  and  each  went 
in  alone  and  veiled.  The  truth  is,  Southey  had  little  na- 
tive hardihood  of  temperament;  self-control  with  him 
was  painfully  acquired.  In  solitude  and  darkness  his 
tears  flowed ;  when  in  his  slumbers  the  images  of  the 
dead  came  to  him,  he  could  not  choose  but  weep.  There- 
fore, all  the  more  among  those  whom  he  wished  to  lead 
into  the  cheerful  ways  of  life,  he  had  need  to  keep  a  guard 
upon  his  tenderness.  He  feared  to  preserve  relics,  and 
did  not  like  to  bear  in  mind  birthdays,  lest  they  should 
afterwards  become  too  dangerously  charged  with  remem- 
brance and  grief.  "  Look,"  he  writes,  "  at  some  verses  in 
the  Literary  Souvenir,  p.  113  ;  they  are  written  by  a  dear 
friend  of  mine  on  the  death  of — you  will  know  who" — ■ 
for  his  pen  would  have  trembled  in  tracing  the  name  Isa- 


tl]  CHAJsGES  and  events,  1803—1843.  17^ 

bel.  And  yet  his  habitual  feelings  with  respect  to  those 
who  had  departed  were  not  bitter ;  the  dead  were  absent 
— that  was  all ;  he  thought  of  them  and  of  living  friends 
at  a  distance  with  the  same  complacency,  the  same  affec- 
tion, only  with  more  tenderness  of  the  dead. 

Greta  Hall,  once  resounding  with  cheerful  voices,  had 
been  growing  silent.  Herbert  was  gone ;  Isabel  was  gone. 
In  1829  Sara  Coleridge  went,  a  bride,  tearful  yet  glad,  her 
mother  accompanying  her,  to  distant  London.  Five  years 
later,  Edith  May  Southey  became  the  wife  of  the  Rev.  John 
Warter.  Her  father  fell  back,  even  more  than  in  former 
years,  upon  the  never-failing  friends  of  his  library.  It  was 
in  these  darkening  years  that  he  sought  relief  in  carrying 
out  the  idea,  conceived  long  before,  of  a  story  which  should 
be  no  story,  but  a  spacious  receptacle  for  mingled  wit  and 
wisdom,  experience  and  book-lore,  wholesome  nonsense  and 
solemn  meditation.  The  Doctor,  begun  in  jest  after  merry 
talks  with  Grosvenor  Bedford,  grew  more  and  more  earnest 
as  Southey  proceeded.  "He  dreamt  over  it  and  brooded 
over  it,  laid  it  aside  for  months  and  years,  resumed  it  after 
long  intervals,  and  more  often,  latterly,  in  thoughtfulness 
than  in  mirth,  and  fancied  at  last  that  he  could  put  into  it 
more  of  his  mind  than  could  conveniently  be  produced  in 
any  other  form."  The  secret  of  its  authorship  was  care- 
fully kept.  Southey  amused  himself  somewhat  laborious- 
ly with  ascribing  it  now  to  this  hand  and  now  to  that. 
When  the  first  two  volumes  arrived,  as  if  from  the  anony- 
mous author,  Southey  thrust  them  away  with  well-assumed 
impatience,  and  the  disdainful  words,  "  Some  novel,  I  sup- 
pose." Yet  several  of  his  friends  had  shrewd  suspicions 
that  the  manuscript  lay  somewhere  hidden  in  Greta  Hall, 
and  on  receiving  their  copies  wrote  to  thank  the  veritable 
donor ;  these  thanks  were  forwarded  by  Southey,  not  with- 


178  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

out  a  smile  in  whicli  something  of  irony  mingled,  to  The- 
odore Hook,  who  was  not  pleased  to  enter  into  the  jest. 
"I  see  in  The  Doctor,^''  says  its  author,  playing  the  part  of 
an  impartial  critic,  "  a  little  of  Rabelais,  but  not  much ; 
more  of  Tristram  Shandy,  somewhat  of  Burton,  and  per- 
haps more  of  Montaigne ;  but  methinks  the  quintum  quid 
predominates?"  The  quintum  quid  is  that  wisdom  of  the 
heart,  that  temper  of  loyal  and  cheerful  acquiescence  in  the 
rule  of  life  as  appointed  by  a  Divine  Master,  which  charac- 
terizes Southey. 

For  the  third  volume  of  77ie  Doctor,  in  that  chapter 
which  tells  of  Leonard  Bacon's  sorrow  for  his  Margaret,' 
Southey  wrote  as  follows : 

"  Leonard  had  looked  for  consolation,  where,  when  sincere- 
ly sought,  it  is  always  to  be  found ;  and  he  had  experienced 
that  religion  effects  in  a  true  believer  all  that  philosophy 
professes,  and  more  than  all  that  mere  philosophy  can  perform. 
The  wounds  which  stoicism  would  cauterize,  religion  heals. 

There  is  a  resignation  with  which,  it  may  be  feared,  most 
of  us  deceive  ourselves.  To  bear  what  must  be  borne,  and 
submit  to  what  cannot  be  resisted,  is  no  more  than  what  the 
unregenerate  heart  is  taught  by  the  instinct  of  animal  nature. 
But  to  acquiesce  in  the  afflictive  dispensations  of  Providence 
— to  make  one's  own  will  conform  in  all  things  to  that  of  our 
Heavenly  Father — to  say  to  him  in  the  sincerity  of  faith,  when 
we  drink  of  the  bitter  cup, '  Thy  will  be  done  !' — to  bless 
the  name  of  the  Lord  as  much  from  the  heart  when  he  takes 
away  as  when  he  gives,  and  with  a  depth  of  feeling  of  which, 
perhaps,  none  but  the  afflicted  heart  is  capable — this  is  the 
resignation  which  religion  teaches,  this  is  the  sacrifice  which 
it  requires." 

These  words,  written  with  no  forefeeling,  were  the  last 
put  on  paper  before  the  great  calamity  burst  upon  South- 
ey.    "  I  have  been  parted  from  my  wife,"  he  tells  Gros- 


Ti.]  CHANGES  AND  EVENTS,  1803—1843.  179 

venor  Bedford  on  October  2,  1834,  "by  something  worse 
than  death.  Forty  years  she  has  been  the  life  of  my  life ; 
and  I  have  left  her  this  day  in  a  lunatic  asylum." 

Southey's  union  with  his  wife  had  been  at  the  first  one 
of  love,  and  use  and  wont  had  made  her  a  portion  of  his 
very  being.  Their  provinces  in  the  household  had  soon 
defined  themselves.  He  in  the  library  earned  their  means 
of  support ;  all  else  might  be  left  to  her  with  absolute  con- 
fidence in  her  wise  contrivance  and  quiet  energy.  Beneath 
the  divided  work  in  their  respective  provinces  their  lives 
ran  on  in  deep  and  still  accord.  Now  he  felt  for  the  first 
time  shrunk  into  the  limits  of  a  solitary  will.  All  that 
had  grown  out  of  the  past  was  deranged  by  a  central  dis- 
turbance ;  no  branch  had  been  lopped  away,  but  the  main 
trunk  was  struck,  and  seared,  and  shaken  to  the  roots. 
"  Mine  is  a  strong  heart,"  Southey  writes ;  "  I  will  not  say 
that  the  last  week  has  been  the  most  trying  of  my  life ; 
but  I  will  say  that  the  heart  which  could  bear  it  can  bear 
anything."  Yet,  when  he  once  more  set  himself  to  work, 
a  common  observer,  says  his  son,  would  have  noticed  little 
change  in  him,  though  to  his  family  the  change  was  great 
indeed.  His  most  wretched  hour  was  when  he  woke  at 
dawn  from  broken  slumbers ;  but  a  word  of  hope  was 
enough  to  counteract  the  mischief  of  a  night's  unrest.  No 
means  were  neglected  which  might  serve  to  keep  him  in 
mental  and  bodily  health ;  he  walked  in  all  weathers ;  he 
pursued  his  task-work  diligently,  yet  not  over-diligently ; 
he  collected  materials  for  work  of  his  choice.  When,  in 
the  spring  of  1835,  it  was  found  that  the  sufferer  might  re- 
turn to  wear  out  the  body  of  this  death  in  her  own  home, 
it  was  marvellous,  declares  Cuthbert  Southey,  how  much  of 
his  old  elasticity  remained,  and  how,  though  no  longer  hap- 
py, he  could  be  contented  and  cheerful,  and  take  pleasure 


180  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

in  the  pleasures  of  others.  He  still  could  contribute  some- 
thing to  his  wife's  comfort.  Through  the  weary  dream 
which  was  now  her  life  she  knew  him,  and  took  pleasure  in 
his  coming  and  going. 

When  Herbert  died,  Southey  had  to  ask  a  friend  to 
lend  him  money  to  tide  over  the  short  period  of  want 
which  followed  his  weeks  of  enforced  inaction-  Happily 
now,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  his  income  was  before- 
hand with  his  expenses.  A  bequest  of  some  hundreds  of 
pounds  had  come  in  ;  his  Naval  Biographies  were  paying 
him  well ;  and  during  part  of  Mrs.  Southey's  illness  he  was 
earning  a  respectable  sum,  intended  for  his  son's  educa- 
tion, by  his  Life  of  Cowper — a  work  to  which  a  painful  in- 
terest was  added  by  the  study  of  mental  alienation  forced 
upon  him  in  his  own  household.  So  the  days  passed,  not 
altogether  cheerlessly,  in  work  if  possible  more  arduous 
than  ever.  "  One  morning,"  writes  his  son,  "  shortly  afteif 
the  letters  had  arrived,  he  called  me  into  his  study.  'You 
will  be  surprised,'  he  said,  *  to  hear  that  Sir  Robert  Peel 
has  recommended  me  to  the  King  for  the  distinction  of 
a  baronetcy,  and  will  probably  feel  some  disappointment 
when  I  tell  you  that  I  shall  not  accept  it.' "  Accompany-* 
ing  Sir  Robert  Peel's  ofBcial  communication  came  a  pri- 
vate letter  asking  in  the  kindest  manner  how  he  could  be 
of  use  to  Southey.  "  Will  you  tell  me,"  he  said,  "  with- 
out reserve,  whether  the  possession  of  power  puts  within 
my  reach  the  means  of  doing  anything  which  can  be  ser- 
viceable or  acceptable  to  you ;  and  whether  you  will  allow 
me  to  find  some  compensation  for  the  many  sacrifices 
which  oflBce  imposes  upon  me,  in  the  opportunity  of  mark- 
ing my  gratitude,  as  a  public  man,  for  the  eminent  services 
you  have  rendered,  not  only  to  literature,  but  to  the  high' 
er  interests  of  virtue  and  religion?"     Southey's  answe* 


Ti.]  CHANGES  AND  EVENTS,  1803—1843.  181 

stated  simply  what  his  circumstances  were,  showing  how 
unbecoming  and  unwise  it  would  be  to  accept  the  proffer- 
ed honour :  it  told  the  friendly  statesman  of  the  provision 
made  for  his  family — no  inconsiderable  one — in  the  event 
of  his  death ;  it  went  on  to  speak  of  his  recent  affliction ; 
how  this  had  sapped  his  former  confidence  in  himself; 
how  it  had  made  him  an  old  man,  and  forced  upon  him 
the  reflection  that  a  sudden  stroke  might  deprive  him  of 
those  faculties  by  which  his  family  had  hitherto  been  sup- 
ported. "  I  could  afford  to  die,  but  not  to  be  disabled," 
he  wrote  in  his  first  draft;  but  fearing  that  these  words 
would  look  as  if  he  wanted  to  trick  out  pathetically  a 
plain  statement,  he  removed  them.  Finally,  if  such  an  in- 
crease of  his  pension  as  would  relieve  him  from  anxiety 
on  behalf  of  his  family  could  form  part  of  a  plan  for  the 
encouragement  of  literature,  it  would  satisfy  all  his  desires. 
"  Young  as  I  then  was,"  Cuthbert  Southey  writes,  "  I  could 
not,  without  tears,  hear  him  read  with  his  deep  and  falter- 
ing voice,  his  wise  refusal  and  touching  expression  of  those 
feelings  and  fears  he  had  never  before  given  utterance  to, 
to  any  of  his  own  family."  Two  months  later  Sir  Robert 
Peel  signed  a  warrant  adding  300^.  annually  to  Southey's 
existing  pension.  He  had  resolved  to  recog-nize  literary 
and  scientific  eminence  as  a  national  claim ;  the  act  was 
done  upon  public  grounds,  and  Southey  had  the  happiness 
of  knowing  that  others  beside  himself  would  partake  of 
the  benefit. 

"  Our  domestic  prospects  are  darkening  upon  ns  daily," 
Southey  wrote  in  July,  1835.  "I  know  not  whether  the 
past  or  the  present  seems  most  like  a  dream  to  me,  so 
great  and  strange  is  the  difference.  But  yet  a  little  while, 
and  all  will  again  be  at  the  best."  While  Mrs.  Southey 
lived,  a  daily  demand  was  made  upon  his  sympathies  and 


182  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

solicitude  which  it  was  his  happiness  to  fulfil.  But  from 
all  except  his  wife  he  seemed  already  to  be  dropping  away 
into  a  state  of  passive  abstraction,  Kate  and  Bertha  si- 
lently ministered  to  his  wants,  laid  the  books  he  wanted  in 
his  way,  replenished  his  ink-bottle,  mended  his  pens,  stir- 
red the  fire,  and  said  nothing.  A  visit  to  the  south-west 
of  England  in  company  with  his  son  broke  the  long  mo- 
notony of  endurance.  It  was  a  happiness  to  meet  Landor 
at  Bristol,  and  Mrs.  Bray  at  Tavistock,  and  Mrs.  Bray's 
friend,  the  humble  poet,  Mary  Colling,  whose  verses  he 
had  reviewed  in  the  Quarterly.  Yet  to  return  to  his  sor- 
rowful home  was  best  of  all;  there  is  a  leap  up  of  the 
old  spirits  in  a  letter  to  his  daughters  announcing  his  ap- 
proach. It  is  almost  the  last  gleam  of  brightness.  In 
the  autumn  of  that  year  (1835)  Edith  Southey  wasted 
away,  growing  weaker  and  weaker.  The  strong  arm  on 
which  she  had  leaned  for  two-and-forty  years,  supported 
her  down  stairs  each  day  and  bore  her  up  again  at  even- 
ing. When  the  morning  of  November  16th  broke,  she 
passed  quietly  "  from  death  unto  life." 

From  that  day  Southey  was  an  altered  man.  His  spir- 
its fell  to  a  still  lower  range.  For  the  first  time  he  was 
conscious  of  the  distance  which  years  had  set  between  him 
and  his  children.  Yet  his  physical  strength  was  unbroken  ; 
nothing  but  snow  deterred  him  from  his  walk ;  he  could 
still  circle  the  lake,  or  penetrate  into  Borrowdale  on  foot. 
But  Echo,  whom  he  had  summoned  to  rejoice,  was  not 
roused  by  any  call  of  his.  Within-doors  it  was  only  by  a 
certain  violence  to  himself  that  he  could  speak.  In  the 
library  he  read  aloud  his  proof-sheets  alone ;  but  for  this 
he  might  almost  have  forgotten  the  sound  of  his  own  voice. 
Still,  he  was  not  wholly  abandoned  to  grief ;  he  looked 
back  and  saw  that  life  had  been  good ;  its  hardest  moral 


Ti.]  CHANGES  AND  EVENTS,  1803—1843.  183 

discipline  had  served  to  train  the  heart :  much  still  remain- 
ed that  was  of  worth — Cuthbert  was  quietly  pursuing  his 
Oxford  studies ;  Bertha  was  about  to  be  united  in  marriage 
to  her  cousin,  Herbert  Hill,  son  of  that  good  uncle  who 
had  done  so  much  to  shape  Southey's  career.  "If  not 
hopeful,"  he  writes,  "  I  am  more  than  contented,  and  dis- 
posed to  welcome  and  entertain  any  good  that  may  yet  be 
in  store  for  me,  without  any  danger  of  being  disappointed 
if  there  should  be  none."  Hope  of  a  sober  kind  indeed 
had  come  to  him.  For  twenty  years  he  had  known  Caro- 
line Bowles ;  they  had  long  been  in  constant  correspond- 
ence ;  their  acquaintance  had  matured  into  friendship. 
She  was  now  in  her  fifty -second  year;  he  in  his  sixty- 
fifth.  It  seemed  to  Southey  natural  that,  without  mak- 
ing any  breach  with  his  past  life,  he  should  accept  her 
companionship  in  the  nearest  way  possible,  should  give  to 
her  all  he  could  of  what  remained,  and  save  himself  from 
that  forlorn  feeling  which  he  feared  might  render  old  age 
miserable  and  useless. 

But  already  the  past  had  subdued  Southey,  and  if  any 
future  lay  before  him  it  was  a  cloud  lifeless  and  grey.  In 
the  autumn  of  1838  he  started  for  a  short  tour  on  the 
Continent  with  his  old  friend  Senhouse,  his  son  Cuthbert, 
John  Kenyon,  their  master  of  the  horse.  Captain  Jones,  the 
chamberlain,  and  Crabb  Robinson,  who  was  intendant  and 
paid  the  bills.  On  the  way  from  poulogne  they  turned 
aside  to  visit  Chinon,  for  Southey  wished  to  stand  on  the 
spot  where  his  first  heroine,  Joan  of  Arc,  had  recognized 
the  French  king.  At  Paris  he  roamed  along  the  quays 
and  hunted  bookstalls.  The  change  and  excitement  seem- 
ed to  have  served  him ;  he  talked  freely  and  was  cheerful. 
"  Still,"  writes  his  son,  "  I  could  not  fail  to  perceive  a  con- 
siderable change  in  him  from  the  time  we  had  last  travel- 


184  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

led  together — all  his  movements  were  slower,  he  was  sub- 
ject to  frequent  fits  of  absence,  and  there  was  an  indeci- 
sion in  his  manner  and  an  unsteadiness  in  his  step  which 
was  wholly  unusual  with  hira."  He  often  lost  his  way, 
even  in  the  hotels ;  then  laughed  at  his  own  mistakes,  and 
yet  was  painfully  conscious  of  his  failing  memory.  His 
journal  breaks  off  abruptly  when  not  more  than  two-thirds 
of  the  tour  had  been  accomplished.  In  February,  1839, 
his  brother,  Dr.  South ey — ever  a  true  comrade — describes 
him  as  working  slowly  and  with  an  abstraction  not  usual 
to  him ;  sometimes  to  write  even  a  letter  seemed  an  effort. 
In  midsummer  his  marriage  to  Caroline  Bowles  took  place, 
and  with  her  he  returned  to  Keswick  in  August.  On  the 
way  home  his  friends  in  London  saw  that  he  was  much  al- 
tered. "  The  animation  and  peculiar  clearness  of  his  mind," 
wrote  Henry  Taylor,  "  was  quite  gone,  except  a  gleam  or 
two  now  and  then.  .  .  .  The  appearance  was  that  of  a 
placid  languor,  sometimes  approaching  to  torpor,  but  not 
otherwise  than  cheerful.  He  is  thin  and  shrunk  in  person, 
and  that  extraordinary  face  of  his  has  no  longer  the  fire 
and  strength  it  used  to  have,  though  the  singular  cast  of 
the  features  and  the  habitual  expressions  make  it  still  a 
most  remarkable  phenomenon."  Still,  his  friends  had  not 
ceased  to  hope  that  tranquillity  would  restore  mental  tone, 
and  he  himself  was  planning  the  completion  of  great  de- 
signs. "  As  soon  as  we  are  settled  at  Keswick,  I  shall  res- 
olutely begin  upon  the  History  of  Portugal,  as  a  duty 
which  I  owe  to  my  uncle's  memory.  Half  of  the  labour 
I  consider  as  done.  But  I  have  long  since  found  the  ad- 
vantage of  doing  more  than  one  thing  at  a  time,  and  the 
History  of  the  Monastic  Orders  is  the  other  thing  to  which 
I  shall  set  to  with  hearty  good-will.  Both  these  are  works 
of  great  pith  and  moment." 


Ti.]  CHANGES  AND  EVENTS,  1803—1843.  185 

Alas !  the  current  of  these  enterprises  was  already  turned 
awry.  In  August  it  was  not  without  an  occasional  uncer- 
tainty that  he  sustained  conversation.  "  He  lost  himself 
for  a  moment ;  he  was  conscious  of  it,  and  an  expression 
passed  over  his  countenance  which  was  very  touching — an 
expression  of  pain  and  also  of  resignation.  .  .  .  The  charm 
of  his  manner  is  perhaps  even  enhanced  at  present  (at 
least  when  one  knows  the  circumstances)  by  the  gentleness 
and  patience  which  pervade  it."  Before  long  the  charac- 
ter of  his  handwriting,  which  had  been  so  exquisite,  was 
changed  to  something  like  the  laboured  scrawl  of  a  child ; 
then  he  ceased  to  write.  Still  he  could  read,  and,  even 
when  he  could  no  longer  take  in  the  meaning  of  what  was 
before  him,  his  eye  followed  the  lines  of  the  printed  page. 
At  last  even  this  was  -beyond  his  power.  He  would  walk 
slowly  round  his  library,  pleased  with  the  presence  of  his 
cherished  possessions,  taking  some  volume  down  mechani- 
cally from  the  shelf.  In  1840  Wordsworth  went  over  to 
Oreta  Hall.  "  Southey  did  not  recognize  me,"  he  writes, 
"tUl  he  was  told.  Then  his  eyes  flashed  for  a  moment 
with  their  former  brightness,  but  he  sank  into  the  state  in 
which  I  had  found  him,  patting  with  both  hands  his  books 
affectionately  like  a  child."  In  the  Life  of  Cowper  he  had 
spoken  of  the  distress  of  one  who  suffers  from  mental 
disease  as  being  that  of  a  dream — "  a  dream,  indeed,  from 
which  the  sufferer  can  neither  wake  nor  be  awakened ;  but 
it  pierces  no  deeper,  and  there  seems  to  be  the  same  dim 
consciousness  of  its  unreality."  So  was  it  now  with  him- 
self. Until  near  the  end  he  retained  considerable  bodily 
strength ;  his  snow  -  white  hair  grew  darker ;  it  was  the 
spirit  which  had  endured  shattering  strokes  of  fate,  and 
which  had  spent  itself  in  studying  to  be  quiet. 

After  a  short  attack  of  fever,  the  end  came  on  the  21st 
N     9  13 


186  SOXJTHEY.  [chap.vl 

of  March,  1843.  Never  was  that  "Well  done!"  the  guer- 
don of  the  good  and  faithful  servant,  pronounced  amid  a 
deeper  consent  of  those  who  attended  and  had  ears  to 
hear.  On  a  dark  and  stormy  morning  Southey's  body  was 
borne  to  the  beautiful  churchyard  of  Crosthwaite,  towards 
which  he  had  long  looked  affectionately  as  his  place  of 
rest.  There  lay  his  three  children  and  she  who  was  the 
life  of  his  life.  Skiddaw  gloomed  solemnly  overhead.  A 
grey-haired,  venerable  man  who  had  crossed  the  hills  stood 
there  leaning  on  the  arm  of  his  son-in-law;  these  two, 
Wordsworth  and  Quillinan,  were  the  only  strangers  pres- 
ent. As  the  words,  *'  ashes  to  ashes,"  were  uttered,  a  sud- 
den gleam  of  sunshine  touched  the  grave ;  the  wind  drop- 
ped, the  rain  was  over,  and  the  birds  had  begun  their  songs 
of  spring.  The  mourners  turned  away  thinking  of  a  good 
man's  life  and  death  with  peace — 

"And  calm  of  mind,  all  passion  spent." 


CHAPTER  Vn. 

southet's  work  in  literature. 

Southey's  career  of  authorship  falls  into  two  chief  periods 
— a  period  during  which  poetry  occupied  the  higher  place 
and  prose  the  lower,  and  a  period  during  which  this  order 
was  reversed.  His  translations  of  romantic  fiction — Ama- 
dis  of  Gaul,  Palmerin  of  England,  and  The  Cid — connect 
the  work  of  the  earlier  with  that  of  the  latter  period,  and 
serve  to  mark  the  progress  of  his  mind  from  legend  to 
history,  and  from  the  fantastic  to  the  real.  The  poet  in 
Southey  died  young,  or,  if  he  did  not  die,  fell  into  a 
numbness  and  old  age  like  that  of  which  an  earlier  singer 

writes : — 

"  Elde  that  in  my  spirit  dulleth  me. 
Hath  of  endyting  all  the  subtilit6 
Welnyghe  bereft  out  of  my  remembraunce." 

After  thirty  Southey  seldom  cared  to  utter  himself  in 
occasional  verse.  The  uniformity  of  his  life,  the  equable 
cheerfulness  maintained  by  habits  of  regular  work,  his 
calm  religious  faith,  his  amiable  Stoicism,  left  him  without 
the  material  for  lyrical  poetry ;  and  one  so  honest  and 
healthy  had  no  care  to  feign  experiences  of  the  heart 
which  were  not  his.  Still,  he  could  apply  himself  to  the 
treatment  of  large  subjects  with  a  calm,  continuous  ener- 
gy ;  but  as  time  went  on  his  hand  grew  slack,  and  wrought 


188  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

with  less  ease.  Scarcely  had  he  overcome  the  narrative 
poet's  chief  difficulty,  that  of  subduing  varied  materials  to 
an  unity  of  design,  when  he  put  aside  verse,  and  found  it 
more  natural  to  be  historian  than  poet. 

The  poetry  of  sober  feeling  is  rare  in  lyrical  verse.  This 
may  be  found  admirably  rendered  in  some  of  Southey's 
shorter  pieces.  Although  his  temper  was  ardent  and 
hopeful,  his  poems  of  pensive  remembrance,  of  meditative 
calm,  are  perhaps  the  most  characteristic.  Among  these 
his  Inscriptions  rank  high.  Some  of  those  in  memory  of 
the  dead  are  remarkable  for  their  fine  poise  of  feeling,  all 
that  is  excessive  and  transitory  having  been  subdued ;  for 
the  tranquil  depths  of  sorrow  and  of  hope  which  lie  be- 
neath their  clear,  melodious  words. 

Southey's  larger  poetical  works  are  fashioned  of  two 
materials  which  do  not  always  entirely  harmonize.  First, 
material  brought  from  his  own  moral  nature;  his  admi- 
ration of  something  elevated  in  the  character  of  man  or 
woman  —  generosity,  gentleness,  loyalty,  fortitude,  faith. 
And,  secondly,  material  gathered  from  abroad ;  mediaeval 
pomps  of  religion  and  circumstance  of  war ;  Arabian  mar- 
vels, the  work  of  the  enchanters  and  the  genii ;  the  wUd 
beauties  and  adventure  of  life  amid  New-World  tribes ;  the 
monstrous  mythology  of  the  Brahman.  With  such  mate- 
rial the  poet's  inventive  talent  deals  freely,  rearranges  de- 
tails or  adds  to  them  ;  still  Southey  is  here  rather  a  finder 
than  a  maker.  His  diligence  in  collecting  and  his  skill 
in  arranging  were  so  great  that  it  was  well  if  the  central 
theme  did  not  disappear  among  manifold  accessories.  One 
who  knows  Southey,  however,  can  recognize  his  ethical 
spirit  in  every  poem.  Thalaba,  as  he  himself  confessed, 
is  a  male  Joan  of  Arc.  Destiny  or  Providence  has  mark- 
ed alike  the  hero  and  the  heroine  from  mankind;  the 


vn.]  SOUTHEY'S  WORK  IN  LITERATURE.  189 

sheepfold  of  Domremi,  and  the  palm-grove  by  old  Moath's 
tent,  alike  nurture  virgin  purity  and  lofty  aspiration.  Tha- 
laba,  like  Joan,  goes  forth  a  delegated  servant  of  the  High- 
est to  war  against  the  powers  of  evil ;  Thalaba,  like  Joan, 
is  sustained  under  the  trials  of  the  way  by  the  sole  talis- 
man of  faith.  We  are  not  left  in  doubt  as  to  where  South- 
ey  found  his  ideal.  Mr.  Barbauld  thought  Joan  of  Arc 
was  modelled  on  the  Socinian  Christ.  He  was  mistaken ; 
Southey's  ideal  was  native  to  his  soul.  "Early  admira- 
tion, almost  adoration  of  Leonidas;  early  principles  of 
Stoicism  derived  from  the  habitual  study  of  Epictetus, 
and  the  French  Revolution  at  its  height  when  I  was  just 
eighteen — by  these  my  mind  was  moulded."  And  from 
these,  absorbed  into  Southey's  very  being,  came  Thalaba 
and  Joan. 

The  word  high-souled  takes  possession  of  the  mind  as 
we  think  of  Southey's  heroic  personages.  Poetry,  he  held, 
ought  rather  to  elevate  than  to  affect — a  Stoical  doctrine 
transferred  to  art,  which  meant  that  his  own  poetry  was 
derived  more  from  admiration  of  great  qualities  than  from 
sympathy  with  individual  men  or  women.  Neither  the 
quick  and  passionate  tenderness  of  Bums  nor  the  stringent 
pathos  of  Wordsworth  can  be  found  in  Southey's  verse. 
No  eye  probably  ever  shed  a  tear  over  the  misery  of  La- 
durlad  and  his  persecuted  daughter.  She,  like  the  lady 
in  Camus,  is  set  above  our  pity  and  perhaps  our  love.  In 
Kehama,  a  work  of  Southey's  mature  years,  the  chivalric 
ardour  of  his  earlier  heroes  is  transformed  into  the  sterner 
virtues  of  fortitude  and  an  almost  despairing  constancy. 
The  power  of  evil,  as  conceived  by  the  poet,  has  grown 
more  despotic ;  little  can  be  achieved  by  the  light-winged 
Glendoveer — a  more  radiant  Thalaba — against  the  Rajah ; 
only  the  lidless  eye  of  Seeva  can  destroy  that  tyranny  of 


190  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

lust  and  pride.  RodericTc  marks  a  higher  stage  in  the  de- 
velopment of  Southey's  ethical  ideal.  Eoderick,  too,  is  a 
delegated  champion  of  right  against  force  and  fraud ;  he 
too  endures  mighty  pains.  But  he  is  neither  such  a  com- 
batant, pure  and  intrepid,  as  goes  forth  from  the  Arab 
tent,  nor  such  a  blameless  martyr  as  Ladurlad.  He  is  first 
a  sinner  enduring  just  punishment;  then  a  stricken  peni- 
tent ;  and  from  his  shame  and  remorse  he  is  at  last  uplift- 
ed by  enthusiasm,  on  behalf  of  his  God  and  his  people,  into 
a  warrior  saint,  the  Gothic  Maccabee. 

Madoc  stands  somewhat  away  from  the  line  of  South- 
ey's other  narrative  poems.  Though,  as  Scott  objected, 
the  personages  in  Madoc  are  too  nearly  abstract  types, 
Southey's  ethical  spirit  dominates  this  poem  less  than  any 
of  the  others.  The  narrative  flows  on  more  simply.  The 
New-World  portion  tells  a  story  full  of  picturesque  inci- 
dent, with  the  same  skill  and  grace  that  belong  to  South- 
ey's best  prose  writings.  Landor  highly  esteemed  Madoc. 
Scott  declared  that  he  had  read  it  three  times  since  his 
first  cursory  perusal,  and  each  time  with  increased  admira- 
tion of  the  poetry.  Fox  was  in  the  habit  of  reading  aloud 
after  supper  to  eleven  o'clock,  when  it  was  the  rule  at  St. 
Ann's  Hill  to  retire ;  but  while  Madoc  was  in  his  hand,  he 
read  until  after  midnight.  Those,  however,  who  opened 
the  bulky  quarto  were  few :  the  tale  was  out  of  relation 
with  the  time;  it  interpreted  no  need,  no  aspiration,  no 
passion  of  the  dawn  of  the  present  century.  And  the 
mind  of  the  time  was  not  enough  disengaged  to  concern  it- 
self deeply  with  the  supposed  adventures  of  a  Welsh  prince 
of  the  twelfth  centnry  among  the  natives  of  America. 

At  heart,  then,  Southey's  poems  are  in  the  main  the 
outcome  of  his  moral  nature ;  this  we  recognize  through 
all  disguises — Mohammedan,  Hindoo,  or   Catholic.     He 


vn.]  SOUTHEY'S  WORK  IN  LITERATURE.  191 

planned  and  partly  wrote  a  poem — Oliver  Newman—' 
which  should  associate  his  characteristic  ideal  with  Puri- 
tan principles  and  ways  of  life.  The  foreign  material 
through  which  his  ethical  idea  was  set  forth  went  far, 
with  each  poem,  to  determine  its  reception  by  the  public 
Coleridge  has  spoken  of  "the  pastoral  charm  and  wild, 
streaming  lights  of  the  ThalabaP  Dewy  night  moon- 
mellowed,  and  the  desert- circle  girdled  by  the  sky,  the 
mystic  palace  of  Shedad,  the  vernal  brook,  Oneiza's  fa- 
vourite kidling,  the  lamp-light  shining  rosy  through  the 
damsel's  delicate  fingers,  the  aged  Arab  in  the  tent-door-— 
these  came  with  a  fresh  charm  into  English  narrative  po- 
etry eighty  years  ago.  The  landscape  and  the  manners 
of  Spain,  as  pictured  in  Roderick,  are  of  marked  grandeur 
and  simplicity.  In  Kehama,  Southey  attempted  a  bolder 
experiment;  and  although  the  poem  became  popular,  even 
a  well-disposed  reader  may  be  allowed  to  sympathize  with 
the  dismay  of  Charles  Lamb  among  the  monstrous  gods : 
"I  never  read  books  of  travels,  at  least  not  farther  than 
Paris  or  Rome.  I  can  just  endure  Moors,  because  of  their 
connexion  as  foes  with  Christians ;  but  Abyssinians,  Ethi- 
ops,  Esquimaux,  Dervises,  and  all  that  tribe  I  hate.  I  be- 
lieve I  fear  them  in  some  manner.  A  Mohammedan  tur- 
ban on  the  stage,  though  enveloping  some  well-known 
face,  .  .  .  does  not  give  me  unalloyed  pleasure.  I  am  a 
Christian,  Englishman,  Londoner,  Templar.  God  help  me 
when  I  come  to  put  off  these  snug  relations,  and  to  get 
abroad  into  the  world  to  come." 

Though  his  materials  are  often  exotic,  in  style  Southey 
aimed  at  the  simplicity  and  strength  of  undefiJed  English. 
If  to  these  melody  was  added,  he  had  attained  all  he  de- 
sired. To  conversations  with  William  Taylor  about  Ger- 
man poetry  —  certainly  not  to  Taylor's  example — he  as- 


192  SOUTHEY.  [chaf. 

cribes  his  faith  in  the  power  of  plain  words  to  express  in 
poetry  the  highest  thoughts  and  strongest  feelings.  He 
perceived,  in  his  own  day,  the  rise  of  the  ornate  style, 
which  has  since  been  perfected  by  Tennyson,  and  he  re- 
garded it  as  a  vice  in  art.  In  early  years  Akenside  had 
been  his  instructor;  afterwards  he  owed  more  to  Landor 
than  to  any  other  master  of  style.  From  Madoc  and  Rod- 
erick— both  in  blank -verse — fragments  could  be  severed 
which  might  pass  for  the  work  of  Landor;  but  Southey's 
free  and  facile  manner,  fostered  by  early  reading  of  Ari- 
osto,  and  by  constant  study  of  Spenser,  soon  reasserts  it- 
self;  from  under  the  fragment  of  monumental  marble, 
white  almost  as  Landor's,  a  stream  wells  out  smooth  and 
clear,  and  lapses  away,  never  dangerously  swift  nor  mys . 
teriously  deep.  On  the  whole,  judged  by  the  highest 
standards,  Southey's  poetry  takes  a  midmost  rank ;  it  nei- 
ther  renders  into  art  a  great  body  of  thought  and  passion, 
nor  does  it  give  faultless  expression  to  lyrical  moments. 
But  it  is  the  output  of  a  large  and  vigorous  mind,  amply 
stored  with  knowledge;  its  breath  of  life  is  the  moral 
ardour  of  a  nature  strong  and  generous,  and  therefore  it 
can  never  cease  to  be  of  worth. 

Southey  is  at  his  best  in  prose.  And  here  it  must  be 
borne  in  mind  that,  though  so  voluminous  a  writer,  he  did 
not  achieve  his  most  important  work,  the  History  of  Port- 
ugal, for  which  he  had  gathered  vast  collections.  It  can- 
not be  doubted  that  this,  if  completed,  would  have  taken  a 
place  among  our  chief  histories.  The  splendour  of  story 
and  the  heroic  personages  would  have  lifted  Southey  into 
his  highest  mood.  We  cannot  speak  with  equal  confi- 
dence of  his  projected  work  of  second  magnitude,  the 
History  of  the  Monastic  Orders.  Learned  and  sensible  it 
could  not  fail  to  be,  and  Southey  would  have  recognized 


Tn.]  SOUTHEY'S  WORK  IN  LITERATURE.  193 

the  more  substantial  services  of  the  founders  and  the 
brotherhoods ;  but  he  would  have  dealt  by  methods  too 
simple  with  the  psychology  of  religious  emotions;  the 
words  enthusiasm  and  fraud  might  have  risen  too  often  to 
his  lips;  and  at  the  grotesque  humours  of  the  devout, 
which  he  would  have  exhibited  with  delight,  he  might 
have  been  too  prone  to  smile. 

As  it  is,  Southey's  largest  works  are  not  his  most  admi- 
rable. The  History  of  Brazil,  indeed,  gives  evidence  of 
amazing  patience,  industry,  and  skill ;  but  its  subject  nec- 
essarily excludes  it  from  the  first  rank.  At  no  time 
from  the  sixteenth  to  the  nineteenth  century  was  Brazil  a 
leader  or  a  banner-bearer  among  lands.  The  life  of  the 
people  crept  on  from  point  to  point,  and  that  is  all ;  there 
are  few  passages  in  which  the  chronicle  can  gather  itself 
up,  and  transform  itself  into  a  historic  drama.  Southey 
has  done  all  that  was  possible ;  his  pages  are  rich  in  facts, 
and  are  more  entertaining  than  perhaps  any  other  writer 
could  have  made  them.  His  extraordinary  acquaintance 
with  travel  gave  him  many  advantages  in  narrating  the 
adventures  of  early  explorers;  and  his  studies  in  ecclesi- 
astical history  led  him  to  treat  with  peculiar  interest  the 
history  of  the  Jesuit  Reductions. 

The  History  of  the  Peninsular  War  suffers  by  compar- 
ison with  the  great  work  of  Sir  William  Napier.  That 
heroic  man  had  himself  been  a  portion  of  the  strife ;  his 
senses,  singularly  keen,  were  attuned  to  battle ;  as  he  wrote, 
the  wild  bugle-calls,  the  measured  tramp,  the  peals  of  mus- 
ketry, the  dismal  clamour,  sounded  in  his  ears ;  he  aban- 
doned himself  again  to  the  swiftness  and  "incredible 
fury"  of  the  charge.  And  with  his  falcon  eye  he  could 
discern  amid  the  shock  or  formless  dispersion,  wherever 
hidden,  the  fiery  heart  of  victory.  Southey  wrought  in 
9* 


194  SOUTHEY.  [chip, 

his  library  as  a  man  of  letters ;  consulted  sources,  turned) 
over  manuscripts,  corresponded  with  witnesses,  set  his  ma- 
terial in  order.  The  passion  of  justice  and  an  enthusiasmi 
on  behalf  of  Spain  give  unity  to  his  work.  If  he  esti- 
mated too  highly  the  disinterestedness  and  courage  of  the- 
people  of  the  Peninsula,  the  illusion  was  generous.  And 
it  may  be  that  enduring  spiritual  forces  become  apparent 
to  a  distant  observer,  which  are  masked  by  accidents  of 
the  day  and  hour  from  one  who  is  in  their  midst. 

History  as  written  by  Southey  is  narrative  rendered 
spiritual  by  moral  ardour.  There  are  no  new  political 
truths,  he  said.  If  there  be  laws  of  a  nation's  life  other 
than  those  connected  with  elementary  principles  of  moral- 
ity, Southey  did  not  discover  these.  What  he  has  written; 
may  go  only  a  little  way  towards  attaining  the  ultimate- 
ends  of  historical  study,  but  so  far  as  it  goes  it  keeps  the- 
direct  line.  It  is  not  led  astray  by  will-o'-the-wisp,  vague- 
shining  theories  that  beguile  night  wanderers.  Its  method 
is  an  honest  method  as  wholesome  as  sweet ;  and  simple 
narrative,  if  ripe  and  sound  at  first,  is  none  the  less  so  at 
the  end  of  a  century. 

In  biography,  at  least,  one  may  be  well  pleased  with 
clear  and  charming  narrative.  Here  Southey  has  not  been 
surpassed,  and  even  in  this  single  province  he  is  versatile ; 
he  has  written  the  life  of  a  warrior,  of  a  poet,  and  of  a 
saint.  His  industry  was  that  of  a  German ;  his  lucidity 
and  perfect  exposition  were  such  as  we  rarely  find  outside 
a  French  memoir.  There  is  no  style  fitter  for  continuous 
narrative  than  the  pedestrian  style  of  Southey.  It  does 
not  beat  upon  the  ear  with  hard,  metallic  vibration.  The 
sentences  are  not  cast  by  the  thousand  in  one  mould  of 
cheap  rhetoric,  nor  made  brilliant  with  one  cheap  colour. 
Never  dithyrambic,  he  is  never  dull ;  he  affects  neither  the 


vn.]  SOUTHEY'S  WORK  IN  LITERATURE.  195 

trick  of  stateliness  nor  that  of  careless  ease ;  he  does  not 
seek  out  curiosities  of  refinement,  nor  caress  delicate  affec- 
tations. Because  his  style  is  natural,  it  is  inimitable,  and 
the  only  way  to  write  like  Southey  is  to  write  well. 

"The  favourite  of  my  library,  among  many  favourites;" 
so  Coleridge  speaks  of  the  Life  of  Wesley — "the  book  I 
can  read  for  the  twentieth  time,  when  I  can  read  nothing 
else  at  all."  And  yet  the  schoolboy's  favourite — the  Life 
of  Nelson — is  of  happier  inspiration.  The  simple  and 
chivalric  hero,  his  splendid  achievements,  his  pride  in  duty, 
his  patriotism,  roused  in  Southey  all  that  was  most  strong 
and  high;  but  his  enthusiasm  does  not  escape  in  lyrical 
speech.  "  The  best  eulogy  of  Nelson,"  he  says,  "  is  the 
faithful  history  of  his  actions ;  the  best  history  that  which 
shall  relate  them  most  perspicuously."  Only  when  all  is 
over,  and  the  captain  of  Trafalgar  lies  dead,  his  passion  and 
pride  find  utterance : — "  If  the  chariot  and  the  horses  of 
fire  had  been  vouchsafed  for  Nelson's  translation,  he  could 
scarcely  have  departed  in  a  brighter  blaze  of  glory."  From 
Nelson  on  the  quarter-deck  of  the  Victory,  to  Cowper  ca- 
ressing his  tame  hares,  the  interval  is  wide ;  but  Southey, 
the  man  of  letters,  lover  of  the  fireside,  and  patron  of 
cats,  found  it  natural  to  sympathize  with  his  brother  poet. 
His  sketches  of  literary  history  in  the  Life  of  Cowper  are 
characteristic.  The  writer's  range  is  wide,  his  judgment 
sound,  his  enjoyment  of  almost  everything  literary  is  live- 
ly ;  as  critic  he  is  kindly  yet  equitable.  But  the  highest 
criticism  is  not  his.  Southey's  vision  was  not  sufficiently 
penetrative ;  he  culls  beauties,  but  he  cannot  pluck  out  the 
heart  of  a  mystery. 

His  translations  of  romantic  fiction,  while  faithful  to 
their  sources,  aim  less  at  literal  exactitude  than  at  giving 
the  English  reader  the  same  pleasure  which  the  Spaniard 


196  SOUTHEY.  [chap. 

receives  from  the  originals.  From  the  destraction  of  Don 
Quixote's  library  Master  Nicholas  and  the  curate  spared 
Amadis  of  Gaul  and  Palmerin  of  England.  Second  to 
Malory's  grouping  of  the  Arthur  cycle  Amadis  may  well 
take  its  place.  Its  chivalric  spirit,  its  wildness,  its  tender- 
ness and  beauty,  are  carefully  preserved  by  the  translator. 
But  Southey's  chief  gift  in  this  kind  to  English  readers  is 
The  Cid.  The  poem  he  supposed,  indeed,  to  be  a  metrical 
chronicle  instead  of  a  metrical  romance — no  fatal  error; 
weaving  together  the  best  of  the  poem,  the  ballads  and  the 
chronicle,  he  produced  more  than  a  mere  compilation.  "  I 
know  no  work  of  the  kind  in  our  language,"  wrote  Cole- 
ridge, "  none  which,  uniting  the  charms  of  romance  and 
history,  keeps  the  imagination  so  constantly  on  the  wing, 
and  yet  leaves  so  much  for  after-reflection." 

Of  Southey's  political  writings  something  has  been  said 
in  a  former  chapter.  Amons  works  which  can  be  brought 
under  no  general  head,  one  tfaai  pleased  the  public  was 
Espriella's  Letters,  sketches  of  English  landscape,  life,  and 
manners,  by  a  supposed  Spanish  traveller.  The  letters,  giv- 
ing as  they  do  a  lively  view  of  England  at  the  beginning 
of  the  present  century,  still  possess  an  interest.  Apart 
from  Southey's  other  works  stands  The  Doctor  ;  nowhere 
else  can  one  find  so  much  of  his  varied  erudition,  his  ge- 
nial spirits,  his  meditative  wisdom.  It  asks  for  a  leisurely 
reader  content  to  ramble  everywhere  and  no  whither,  and 
still  pleased  to  take  another  turn  because  his  companion 
has  not  yet  come  to  an  end  of  learning,  mirth,  or  medita- 
tion. That  the  author  of  a  book  so  characteristic  was  not 
instantly  recognized,  is  strange.  "The  wit  and  humour 
of  The  Doctor,^^  says  Edgar  Poe,  a  keen  critic,  "  have  sel- 
dom been  equalled.  We  cannot  think  Southey  wrote 
it."     Gratitude  is  due  to  Dr.  Daniel  Dove  from  innumer- 


vn.]  SOUTHEY'S  WORK  IN  LITERATURE.  197 

able  "good  little  women  and  men,"  who  have  been  de- 
lighted with  his  story  of  The  Three  Bears.  To  know  that 
he  had  added  a  classic  to  the  nursery  would  have  been  the 
pride  of  Southey's  heart.  Wide  eyes  entranced  and  peals 
of  young  laughter  still  make  a  triumph  for  one  whose 
spirit,  grave  with  a  man's  wisdom,  was  pure  as  the  spirit 
of  a  little  child. 


THE    END. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    001  12o 


Date  Due 

MAY  16  '60 

Fhr 

I,    ;364 

NOV  7 

1963 

Library  Bureau  Cat.  No.   1137 

tl|{l(lllfllYffi^'P^  LIBRARY 


3  1210  01269  5365 


